Is the new reality forcing Portland to lose its appetite?

Restaurants in many cities are coming to terms with a different landscape

The idea of a restaurant like Higgins is getting harder to sustain in a changed environment.

Can legacy restaurants adapt?

On Saturday, chef Greg Higgins and co-owner Paul Mallory sent out a message no one wanted to read:

“We’re hanging on by a thread.”

For three decades, Higgins has been more than a restaurant. It’s been a civic gathering place. A bar with real napkins. A restaurant that took pride in locally sourced food.

But now, like so many others downtown, apparently it’s in trouble.

And while it’s tempting to frame this as another sad Portland story, the truth is bigger:
Cities across the country are wrestling with the same post-pandemic question.

San Francisco. Seattle. Even D.C. Downtowns hollowed out. Office towers still quiet. Restaurants that once fed the heartbeat of a city counting costs and customers..

Higgins isn’t just struggling because of Portland. It’s struggling because the very idea of a restaurant like Higgins is becoming harder to sustain.

COVID broke the routine—and it hasn’t snapped back

The email from Higgins’ owners lays it out clearly:

“Downtown Portland has changed. Recovery has been slow. Office vacancies are at historic highs… Business travel is down. Arts and culture events are in their summer lull.”

NW Examiner readers have seen this unfold in real time.

We’ve reported on vacant storefronts, collapsing retail corridors, Class A offices topping 35 percent vacancy. Can Font is gone. Ram’s Head is gone. In a recent Portland Monthly article, Andina's co-owner, John Platt, is quoted as saying: "There’s still a psychological barrier where a lot of people who drive from the outer neighborhoods say, ‘I don’t go downtown anymore,’" Platt says. “We’re feeling that.”

We’re not in 2019 anymore.

The people who grabbed lunch at Higgins between meetings? Gone. The afterwork drink crowd? At home. The theatergoers? Still deciding if the matinee is worth the Uber.

Yes, Higgins is expensive. It always has been.

There’s a conversation to be had around pricing. So let’s have it.

The bistro burger at Higgins is $22, before salad or soup. A dinner for two with drinks can float past $150. That’s not cheap.

But here’s the thing: Higgins was never trying to be cheap. It just wasn’t flashy about it. It was always a restaurant where you paid for quality and intention and knew you were in good hands. But these days, a $22 burger without trimmings might as well come with a neon sign that reads, “Yes we know…”

The audience has changed

Younger diners aren’t looking for white tablecloths. They want spice, speed, sustainability. Tacos that have their own story, a pho that feels like it’s from Hanoi. And if they’re spending $22, it better be in a place with a playlist.

That doesn’t mean Higgins is irrelevant. It means it’s vulnerable.

You don’t change a city’s tastes. You adapt to them. Or you risk being remembered fondly.

So what happens now?

There are no villains here. No greedy landlords. No management scandal. No kitchen fire. Just a slow, quiet erosion of what used to be normal.

So if Higgins goes under, it won’t be because it failed. It’ll be because the civic infrastructure that once held it up—office workers, cultural routines, shared urban life—isn’t really back yet.

And maybe won’t be.

A final thought

If Higgins closes, it’s a loss.

But surely the deeper loss is this: A city needs places like Higgins.

Places where you can have a conversation, a cocktail and a sense that you’re part of something shared.

If those go away, what are we left with?

Just delivery apps and neon signs?

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