Carte Blanche, a food truck in Portland, Oregon, enthralled my taste buds so much so, I forgot to snap a picture of that delectable mistress.

This fact alone proves I’m a shite food blogger. Good thing I don’t pretend to be one. It’s just that I was traveling around Portland this past weekend with some dear pals and we found ourselves hungry and antsy for more than brunch on a Sunday ’round noon.  Hawthorne Street had already provided us with boutiques hawking Tibetan textiles and heady incense and vintage clothing stores full of thread-bare band t-shirts.  But we did not hunger for those things. Nay. We hungered for the Krampus Day Miracle.

The hell is a Krampus Day Miracle, you ask? It’s a sandwich. The folks at Carte Blanche must know a thing or two about European holiday traditions or might even be a part of the Austrian diaspora.  Krampus is one of Santa’s homeboys, except his duty is to mete out punishment for all those kids worthy of coal on December 25th. So why might this sandwich be named after a crotchety harbinger of ill-tidings and iller-consequences? I hazard to guess it’s because this sandwich is a miracle bestowed upon all, the worthy and naughty alike.

And a blessing it is. A tasty, lovely blessing.

Here’s what the folks at Carte Blanche have to report in terms of ingredients for this meal:

“Za’atar-honey seasoned fried chicken OR eggplant, balsamic caramelized onions, chevre, praline bacon, green apple, arugula, Thai basil pesto, roasted sweet peppers, and aleppo aioli on a toasted Grand Central hoagie roll.  Served with tamarind roasted brussels sprout salad with buckwheat soba noodles, mandarin oranges, and peanuts.”

What’s all that mean to a prospective diner? Mouth-gasm. KNun and JSte were with me, making us a trio of lovely ladies lunching, and we all were silent with admiration and joy and satiated taste buds. Talking was unnecessary. For we were all experiencing the same thing. Our eating was a type of gustatory telepathy and we all knew then, there, after the first bite. BEST. SANDWICH. EVER.

It was so good, and the man in the silver Airstream prepping our lunch so welcoming, we decided to use the term “carte blanche” in the future not to talk about a blank slate, but to speak of pinnacles of awesomeness and spires of sharp, hard badassdom. Our Carte Blanche food truck experience was truly carte blanche.

This is the sandwich and these are the culinary angels you’d move to Portland for, just because they complete you. Or they at the very least fill a hole in your gut. Literally AND figuratively.  As we tucked into our fare, we tried to cling to our olfactory-experience, the flavors on our tongues, by concocting a way to hold on to the moment while our plates emptied. JSte, living twenty minutes away, could get her Krampus Day Miracle many times over. KNun and I were left shuffling dates in our mind for a return trip to Portland. Could we make a monthly pilgrimage to the food truck on Hawthorne? At $10 for the sandwich and the satisfying side dish, it would only put us back around $180 a trip for the meal and the airplane ticket. And $180 wasn’t looking too shabby a price for the dandiest, most scrumptious sandwich in Portland proper. And perhaps the world?

Forget Santa Claus. If Krampus wants to come to my house baring his fangs, his sharp horns and cloven hooves, he’s more than welcome if he has this fucking sandwich in his mitts. If I need to be a bad girl to get home delivery, I’ll be bad. I’ll be the worst.  Anything for a Krampus Day Miracle.

First bad deed: I lied about the picture. I didn’t take one, but the good folks of Carte Blanche have one.  The sandwich which causes saints to consider skipping mass is second from the left.