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Portland Tribune, OR
Sept 9 2005
What's Armenian for `shake your booty'?
Without being overpowering, the scents of cigarette smoke and cologne
define the atmosphere inside Ararat on a Friday night. The restaurant
and nightclub, named for the mountain that is a symbol of Armenian
culture, draws a mainly Eastern European crowd to its small dance
floor every weekend.
At 11 p.m. the place hasn't started to jump yet. A long banquet
table in the center of the room, with `reserved' signs on it, is
still empty. A few girls are dancing together to melodramatic Russian
disco.
The decorations are spare but striking. Vinyl records suspended
from the ceiling twist in the breeze. Huge gold letters, spelling out
A-R-A-R-A-T, give the awning over the tiny side bar the look of an
outdoor kiosk. The dance floor makes up for its size with style: It's
lit from beneath by flashing, pulsing, multicolored lights.
We settle down at one end of a long table for some
people-watching. Just before midnight, the place starts filling up. A
group finally claims the `reserved' table behind us. The waiter
brings them three bottles of champagne.
A woman selling flowers circles the room. She looks familiar - one
of the tribe who wander, mostly ignored, through Portland's bars and
nightclubs. But unlike others of her ilk, she's doing a brisk
business here. She sells out within an hour, and stays to watch the
dancing.
The dance floor is now filled with rhythmically moving bodies.
Suddenly, the music stops. The DJ asks everyone to sit down, which
they do reluctantly, to make way for the belly dancer. Dressed in a
spangled scarlet ensemble, with long black hair and a dazzling smile,
Eva appears. Her elaborate, sinuous routine concludes with a
circumnavigation of the room, collecting dollar bills in her
waistband.
Afterward, I step outside with her to ask a few questions. Her
full name is Eva Van Derlip, and she's filling in tonight for the
regular belly dancer, known as Yemaya. Belly dancers have a solid
community in Portland, she says. As if to prove her point, we're
joined by Debra Souki, another belly dancer, who is planning to teach
beginners lessons at Ararat starting next month (call the restaurant
for details).
`Have you seen the back?' Souki asks me. She rounds up one of the
owners, Nelli Grigorian, and they lead me past the now-packed dance
floor, down a hallway, and into another world - albeit one also
defined by its aroma. In this case, it's the sweet, enveloping scent
of freshly baked bread. We're surrounded by kneading tables, ovens
and racks filled with loaves.
Grigorian, handing me a braided loaf, tells me she came to
Portland with her husband, Avo Karapetian, 11 years ago. They first
came to Los Angeles from Armenia, but didn't like it, and continued
north. Now, handing me a package of sweet rolls (which, by the way,
make a great 2 a.m. snack) she tells me she loves Portland, loves how
friendly people are here.
I decide that, purely for research purposes, I need to dance on
the flashing dance floor before I leave. Unfortunately, after
midnight, the music is mostly techno, which I don't find very
inspiring. Nevertheless, one of my friends and I thread our way into
the group, which has achieved critical mass.
In dance floor terms, this means it doesn't much matter if you're
a bad dancer, because no one can see you. You're just one small
moving part of a larger organism. It also doesn't matter if you don't
like the song - there's a contagious desire to keep moving, anyway ...
at least up to a point.
The music changes. It's the first song tonight that I've actually
recognized. It's a terrible, annoying, repetitive pop song that was
once a huge hit in Europe. I was traveling there with my parents at
the time, 20 years ago, and we heard it everywhere we went, to the
point where it became a family joke. Now here it is again, although
apparently no one else likes it either. The DJ actually puts a halt
to it partway through.
Still, there's no escaping this song. It's been stuck in my head
ever since.
Sept 9 2005
What's Armenian for `shake your booty'?
Without being overpowering, the scents of cigarette smoke and cologne
define the atmosphere inside Ararat on a Friday night. The restaurant
and nightclub, named for the mountain that is a symbol of Armenian
culture, draws a mainly Eastern European crowd to its small dance
floor every weekend.
At 11 p.m. the place hasn't started to jump yet. A long banquet
table in the center of the room, with `reserved' signs on it, is
still empty. A few girls are dancing together to melodramatic Russian
disco.
The decorations are spare but striking. Vinyl records suspended
from the ceiling twist in the breeze. Huge gold letters, spelling out
A-R-A-R-A-T, give the awning over the tiny side bar the look of an
outdoor kiosk. The dance floor makes up for its size with style: It's
lit from beneath by flashing, pulsing, multicolored lights.
We settle down at one end of a long table for some
people-watching. Just before midnight, the place starts filling up. A
group finally claims the `reserved' table behind us. The waiter
brings them three bottles of champagne.
A woman selling flowers circles the room. She looks familiar - one
of the tribe who wander, mostly ignored, through Portland's bars and
nightclubs. But unlike others of her ilk, she's doing a brisk
business here. She sells out within an hour, and stays to watch the
dancing.
The dance floor is now filled with rhythmically moving bodies.
Suddenly, the music stops. The DJ asks everyone to sit down, which
they do reluctantly, to make way for the belly dancer. Dressed in a
spangled scarlet ensemble, with long black hair and a dazzling smile,
Eva appears. Her elaborate, sinuous routine concludes with a
circumnavigation of the room, collecting dollar bills in her
waistband.
Afterward, I step outside with her to ask a few questions. Her
full name is Eva Van Derlip, and she's filling in tonight for the
regular belly dancer, known as Yemaya. Belly dancers have a solid
community in Portland, she says. As if to prove her point, we're
joined by Debra Souki, another belly dancer, who is planning to teach
beginners lessons at Ararat starting next month (call the restaurant
for details).
`Have you seen the back?' Souki asks me. She rounds up one of the
owners, Nelli Grigorian, and they lead me past the now-packed dance
floor, down a hallway, and into another world - albeit one also
defined by its aroma. In this case, it's the sweet, enveloping scent
of freshly baked bread. We're surrounded by kneading tables, ovens
and racks filled with loaves.
Grigorian, handing me a braided loaf, tells me she came to
Portland with her husband, Avo Karapetian, 11 years ago. They first
came to Los Angeles from Armenia, but didn't like it, and continued
north. Now, handing me a package of sweet rolls (which, by the way,
make a great 2 a.m. snack) she tells me she loves Portland, loves how
friendly people are here.
I decide that, purely for research purposes, I need to dance on
the flashing dance floor before I leave. Unfortunately, after
midnight, the music is mostly techno, which I don't find very
inspiring. Nevertheless, one of my friends and I thread our way into
the group, which has achieved critical mass.
In dance floor terms, this means it doesn't much matter if you're
a bad dancer, because no one can see you. You're just one small
moving part of a larger organism. It also doesn't matter if you don't
like the song - there's a contagious desire to keep moving, anyway ...
at least up to a point.
The music changes. It's the first song tonight that I've actually
recognized. It's a terrible, annoying, repetitive pop song that was
once a huge hit in Europe. I was traveling there with my parents at
the time, 20 years ago, and we heard it everywhere we went, to the
point where it became a family joke. Now here it is again, although
apparently no one else likes it either. The DJ actually puts a halt
to it partway through.
Still, there's no escaping this song. It's been stuck in my head
ever since.