There are two Voodoo Doughnuts: Voodoo Doughnut the Place that Sells Doughnuts and Voodoo Doughnut the Scene. (Don't worry, I ALSO want me to die for writing that sentence.) Voodoo Doughnut, the place that sells actual doughnuts, feels like it was pulled out of the LSD-fueled dream of a fat, old hippie named Scrumptious. It's great. I'm glad it's here. It always feels a little bit like I'm walking into San Francisco when I go there—more so now, after the renovation of the downtown space, but even back in the old hole-in-the-wall days.
Now, Voodoo Doughnut the "scene"? The Voodoo Doughnut with a line full of drunk girls holding shoes and civil engineers on terrible dates and people who are probably Bon Iver and high-school kids all lit up on being awake and probably Japanese tourists and somebody's mom—and they're all standing together in a line that has to zig around some dude on heroin? That's fucking Portland.
