Let’s just say it: Michael is an asshole. This Chicago-style sandwich joint is plastered with right-wing news clippings and nitpicking signs. The latest, tacked to the door, reads “No Muddy Shoes,” which if strictly adhered to during Portland’s nine-month rainy season would put the restaurant out of business. But Michael has Portland over a barrel because there’s nowhere else in town to satisfy your craving for the juice-dripping, pepper-spilling heart attacks that are Chicago-style beef and sausage sandwiches. Ubiquitous in the Windy City, these greasy, vinegary, spicy, supremely satisfying gut bombs are a rarity in these parts, and it’s worth braving the bitter signage and general obnoxiousness of Michael’s when a craving strikes.