I Used to Make Fun of Ocotillo. Now I Get It.

There was a time when I’d sit at Ruski’s with friends after a long night out, nursing black coffee and eggs, and we’d watch the line snake down the block at Ocotillo. We’d laugh. “Imagine waiting an hour for brunch.” It felt insane to me. I’m not a brunch guy. Never have been.

But dinner? That’s a different story.

I’ve been slipping into Ocotillo more and more lately, and somewhere along the way, something shifted. Early on, I thought the food was close but not quite there: a little light on the salt, a touch shy on the lime, like it was holding back. Not bad, but not craveable. Now it’s hitting. The seasoning’s locked in, the flavors sharper, the plates confident. This is a kitchen that’s grown into itself.

The menu proves it. The chips and salsa sound simple, but the trio of house-made salsas hits hard. The avocado salsa is silky, the chile de árbol brings the heat, but it’s the salsa macha, nutty, smoky, spicy, that’s on another planet. I’ve never had anything quite like it.

I was born in Texas, which means good Tex-Mex isn’t just food to me, it’s a craving that never really goes away. At least weekly, I want tortillas warm enough to burn your fingertips, smoky salsas that punch through the salt on your lips, beans cooked down until they taste like comfort itself. Living this far from the border, those cravings hit harder. Portland has plenty of food worth talking about, but Tex-Mex that feels like home? That’s rare. So when a place like Ocotillo nails it, when the salsa macha wakes something familiar in me, when a Carne Asada comes out tasting like it belongs under hotter skies, it’s more than just dinner.

Then there’s the mollete: toasted sourdough from Zu Bakery with whipped queso fresco, heirloom tomato, black beans, and basil chimichurri. If you’re not a tomato person and usually push them aside, this plate makes you reconsider. It might be my favorite thing they serve.

And if you want something bigger, the carne asada delivers. Marinated hanger steak, seared just enough, laid over crispy fingerlings with chimichurri aioli. It’s the kind of plate that feels like it belongs in a louder, bigger city but fits perfectly in the West End’s quiet glow.

Wash it down with a cardamom epazote lemonade, bright and herbal, that makes you stop mid-conversation just to notice it.

At night is when it clicks. The glow spilling onto the West End sidewalk. The low buzz that makes you want another drink, another plate. It’s not trying too hard. It doesn’t need to. The food does the work.

I’m still not standing in line for brunch. Drag me if you want, but I’ll die on that hill. What I will say: if you find yourself in the West End and Ocotillo’s open for dinner, go. Slide into a seat, order whatever’s on special, and let them show you what they’ve figured out.

Because they have figured it out. And I get it now.

Click Here! To Check out Ocotillo’s Dinner Menu

If you had to drag me to brunch in Portland, where should I go?

I’ve spent years clowning on brunch in Portland, but maybe I need to eat my words.

When Peaks Island Had a Roller Coaster

Before Peaks was porches, cottages, and bike rentals, it was Portland’s Coney Island. Greenwood Garden sat just off Island Avenue in the late 1800s, pulling thousands by steamer every weekend.

Picture this: you step off the Forest City boat and the wharf is chaos. Brass bands warming up, beer flowing in the beerhaus, kids tugging at their parents for popcorn. A carousel creaks, a Ferris wheel spins, and a wooden roller-skating rink anchors the midway. Some old maps even mark a roller coaster, an early switchback ride that rattled more than it roared.

For a stretch, Peaks was alive in a way that’s hard to picture now. Families who had never left the peninsula suddenly had fried clams, sideshow acts, and moonlight ferries at their doorstep. Steamers packed to the rails kept making runs, the kind of summer that smells like coal smoke and saltwater.

But nothing gold stays. Automobiles shifted where people vacationed, and fires were merciless: 1918, 1934, 1936. Hotels and theaters went up in smoke. By the 1950s, the Playhouse shuttered for good.

What’s left now is a deep memory. If you roll past the Lions Club lawn on Garden Place, ( Near Il Leone ) you’re standing where Greenwood Garden once lit up the island. Close your eyes: the rattle of a crude wooden coaster, the hum of the crowd, the Atlantic just beyond. Peaks remembers, even if the rides are gone.

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