You’re walking down SE Belmont, maybe a little hungover, definitely hungry, and you see it. It’s not a dive bar, though it feels like one. It's not a high-concept bistro, though the food says otherwise. It’s Devil’s Dill, and specifically, it’s the Triple Lindy Portland residents have been obsessing over for years.
Sandwiches in Portland are a blood sport. We have the heavy hitters, the sourdough snobs, and the people who think a banh mi is the only way to survive a Tuesday. But the Triple Lindy is different. It’s a beast. It’s a mess. Honestly, it’s probably the most structurally ambitious thing you can eat for under fifteen bucks in the 503.
What is the Triple Lindy exactly?
If you’re expecting a Rodney Dangerfield reference that ends in a swimming pool, you’re only half right. The name is a nod to the impossible dive from Back to School, but in Portland, the Triple Lindy is a culinary stack that shouldn't work.
It starts with house-smoked brisket. We aren't talking about that dry, gray stuff you find at a suburban buffet. This is slow-cooked, tender-as-hell beef that actually tastes like woodsmoke. Then they hit it with the acid. House-made pickles and pickled red onions. That’s the first "flip" of the dive. The second is the crunch—slaw that isn't just mayo-drenched cabbage, but something with a bit of a kick.
The final "splash"? The spicy remoulade and the bread. Devil's Dill uses bread that actually holds up. There is nothing worse than a sandwich that disintegrates in your hands three bites in. This one stays together, even when the juices from the brisket start trying to stage a prison break.
Why Portland fell for a sandwich this heavy
Portland’s food scene used to be all about the "Portlandia" stereotypes—tweezer food, fermented everything, and birds on things. But lately, there’s been a shift toward what I call "elevated blue-collar" eating.
We want food that feels honest.
The Triple Lindy Portland vibe fits this perfectly. It’s served late. Devil's Dill famously stays open until 3:00 AM most nights, making it the unofficial sponsor of the city's service industry workers. When you finish a shift at a bar or a venue, you don't want a kale salad. You want a Triple Lindy.
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It’s the kind of food that demands your full attention. You can’t really scroll on your phone while eating this. It’s a two-handed operation. It’s messy. It’s glorious. You’ve probably seen people sitting on the sidewalk outside the shop, hunched over a paper wrapper like they’re protecting a secret. In a way, they are.
The Brisket Factor
Let’s talk about the meat for a second because that’s where most places mess up. Brisket is fickle. It requires patience, and in a fast-paced sandwich shop, patience is a luxury.
- The Smoke: They use real wood. You can taste the depth.
- The Cut: It’s sliced thin enough to bite through but thick enough to have texture.
- The Seasoning: It’s salty, peppery, and doesn't hide behind a sugary BBQ sauce.
Most people think "Triple Lindy" and think of the movie. But here, the "Triple" really refers to the balance of fat, acid, and heat. Without the pickles, the brisket would be too heavy. Without the remoulade, it would be too dry. It’s a tightrope walk.
Comparing the Portland Sandwich Giants
If you're doing a sandwich tour of the Rose City, you’re hitting Lardo, you’re hitting Guero, and you’re definitely hitting Devil’s Dill.
Lardo is great for that over-the-top, pork-heavy decadence. Guero is the king of the torta. But Devil’s Dill occupies this weird, cool space in the middle. It’s a bit more "indie." It feels less like a brand and more like a neighborhood staple.
The Triple Lindy isn't trying to be a gourmet reinvention of the sandwich. It’s just trying to be the best version of a brisket sandwich that has ever existed in the Pacific Northwest.
The Logistics of Eating a Triple Lindy
Look, don't wear a white shirt. Seriously.
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If you’re ordering the Triple Lindy Portland style, you are committing to a certain level of tactile engagement with your food. The remoulade is going to drip. The pickles might slide. It’s part of the charm.
The shop itself is small. It’s cozy. Usually, the music is loud, and the staff is moving at 100 miles per hour. It’s the heartbeat of SE Belmont.
- Check the hours: They are late-night legends, but always check if they've had a random closure.
- Order the chips: Their house-made chips are thin, salty, and the perfect sidekick.
- Grab extra napkins: More than you think you need. Then double that.
Is it worth the hype?
Portland is a city of hype. We queue up for donuts; we wait in line for brunch in the rain. Sometimes, the payoff isn't there.
But with the Triple Lindy, the hype is grounded in actual flavor. It’s not a "gimmick" sandwich. It’s not massive just for the sake of being big. Every ingredient serves a purpose. The crunch of the slaw isn't just for noise; it cuts through the richness of the brisket fat. The spiciness of the remoulade lingers just long enough to make you want another sip of whatever you’re drinking.
It’s basically a masterclass in sandwich construction.
Honestly, even if you aren't a "sandwich person," this thing might convert you. It’s soul food for a city that spends six months of the year under a gray sky. It’s warm, it’s filling, and it feels like a hug for your arteries.
Beyond the Sandwich: The Devil’s Dill Context
You can't talk about the Triple Lindy Portland without mentioning the shop's delivery model. For a long time, they were the "free delivery" kings of the inner east side. While DoorDash and UberEats were busy adding ten dollars in fees to your order, the Dill was just bringing sandwiches to your door.
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That built a lot of loyalty.
When you get a Triple Lindy delivered at 1:00 AM on a rainy Tuesday, it tastes better. It just does. It’s the taste of someone caring about your hunger when the rest of the world is asleep.
The menu has other hits, sure. The No. 4 with pulled pork is solid. The No. 5 with flank steak is a sleeper hit. But the Triple Lindy is the undisputed heavyweight champion. It’s the one people talk about on Reddit threads at 2:00 AM. It’s the one that visitors are told they "have to try."
Taking the Plunge
If you’re ready to tackle the Triple Lindy, don't overthink it. Walk in, order the sandwich, and find a spot to sit.
Don't try to customize it too much. The balance is already there. The chefs have spent years dialing in the ratio of brisket to slaw. Trust the process.
Portland’s food scene is always evolving. New spots open every week, and old favorites close down. But the Triple Lindy feels like a permanent fixture. It’s a reminder that at the end of the day, we don't always need "deconstructed" or "reimagined" food. Sometimes, we just need a really great sandwich.
How to Get the Most Out of Your Visit
- Timing is everything: If you go at 12:30 PM, you'll hit the lunch rush. If you go at 12:30 AM, you'll hit the bar crowd. Choose your chaos.
- The Beverage Pairing: Something acidic or carbonated works best to cut the brisket. A local IPA or a tart kombucha is the way to go.
- Walk it off: You're on Belmont. After finishing that beast, walk a few blocks. Look at the vintage shops. Breathe in the Portland air. You'll need the movement to digest that much protein.
The Triple Lindy Portland isn't just a meal; it’s a rite of passage. It’s proof that the city still has its soul, tucked away in a sandwich wrapper in Southeast.
Go to Devil’s Dill on SE Belmont. Order the Triple Lindy with a side of house-made chips. Eat it immediately while the brisket is still warm and the slaw is still crisp. This is the definitive way to experience Portland's late-night food culture without the tourist traps or the pretense.