After Burning Man last summer I found myself on my own in San Francisco for a few days. A few friends recommended a small pub called the Black Horse in the Marina District near where I was staying. I wandered up to Union Street in search of the place one night around ten and walked right past it. The Black Horse is incredibly small, roughly the size of a walk-in freezer, with only twelve bar stools for patrons.
Typically in situations like this, I take a seat in the corner, break out my iPhone and immediately delve into my own little world of Twitter and Facebook. No sooner had I hit icon for Echofon when I started getting glares from the other three people in the tiny pub. The wide-eyed blond working the bar came over and pointed to a framed list on the wall. The Black Horse is a drinking establishment with rules, you see, one of which is "no cell phones."
I'd been warned about this list but I didn't think anyone would actually enforce it. The bartender explained. At the Black Horse, the proprietor came up with these rules to facilitate conversation between customers and keep a level of camaraderie and good cheer going during business hours. I was skeptical but, moments later, I found myself delving into a conversation with a group of locals that would go on for the next few hours. Months later, I can still remember what we talked about. High rents, the creative class, the negative effects of Coldplay, relationship troubles and how summer in San Francisco doesn't really get going until after Labor Day.
I spent a few evenings at the Black Horse, and no doubt due to the rules, I found myself talking to a good number of fellow patrons. My favorites: a guy who looked like Bob Saget, drunk and/or coked-up, who was eager to discuss 9/11 conspiracy theories and an advertising guru with a passion for organic farming. The later spends his vacation days volunteering on a friend's farm in Oregon. He asked me to say hi to the owners of the Minto Island Growers, an operation down in Salem, if I ever run into them at a farmers market around Portland. I don't know if that'll ever happen so I'll post a shout-out to them here. If you folks are out there reading this, Harris says, "howdy."
And now that I think about, that other guy probably *was* Bob Saget.
I've battled shyness all of my life and certain social situations can be the equivalent of jumping into a hot tub filled with piranhas. Of course, having an iPhone around to serve as an escape route doesn't help matters. Yesterday I was in class. When the professor asked us to break into small groups to discuss the documentary we'd just seen, I broke out my phone and more or less hid-out until the lecture resumed. Thankfully, class participation isn't part of my grade for this course.
I'm not proud of this, by any means, but I'm not alone. On Monday, San Francisco Weekly tackled this topic and the article quotes a psychology professor who claims that smart phones are further fueling shyness in the states. I guess there's an argument to be made for that and even the author admits that she pretends to text in order to get out of awkward social situations.
Still, I'd say that more good than harm has come from smart phones and "structured electronic interactions." Sites like Facebook have put me in touch with people I would never talk to otherwise. Without Twitter, I would never have had the opportunity to argue with Oregonian critic Shawn Levy about Avatar, itself a movie about individuals who, more or less, use technology to meet people. Or, more specifically, 12-foot tall Thundercats.
Here in Portland, anyone sitting by themselves in a bar or a restaurant typically has a phone in their hands. I wonder if the Black Horse's policies could fly in a small pub along Alberta or Hawthorne. Maybe so...
Aaron Breniman is the first, and hopefully not last, person I know who has opened a bar and grill. His place is called The Verdict and it's located across the street from the Clackamas County Courthouse in Oregon City.
Naturally, given its proximity to a hotbed of jurisprudence, The Verdict has a legal theme. Old Oregon case books line the walls and the menu is littered with terms from Pre-Law 101. "Happy Hour" is instead an "Abatement Period" and the appetizers are listed under "Opening Statements." I recommend the chicken wings.
There's also a gigantic gavel over The Verdict's snazzy island bar, which I think looks sharp when rendered in black and white.
A few Saturdays ago, I had the opportunity to tag along on a mission to find a teeny-tiny replacement part for an '08 Subaru. We wound up at a junk yard on the outskirts of Albany. Somewhere among the hundreds of wrecked cars we came across this wine delivery van. I don't have a theory about how it wound up there but the guy standing in this photo obviously does.
Portland has plenty of these places- restaurants, bars and hotels with a certain "vibe," for lack of a better word. Locales with an aura of mystery and darkness like something out of a Tom Waits song. When you walk in for the first time you're bound to find yourself thinking, "Yep, this establishment is probably haunted" even if you don't know its history.
The White Eagle, Hobos, Mama Mia Trattoria, the Kennedy School, the Shanghai, Old Town Pizza, they all bear a few dusty, old secrets and a ghost story or three. I recently wandered into the Tugboat Brewing Company on SW Ankeny and got that same feeling. Old photos and portraits line the walls alongside bookshelves. The booths are worn and the lamps look like they've been there for a hundred years. An old piano sits off in a corner.
It's a great spot with a friendly staff but I wonder if any of them hate to be the last one out the door every night. What's the history behind the place and what's the bio of its resident spirit? I'm sure they've got at least one hanging around.
So you don't believe in ghosts? Well, me neither, despite an incredibly creepy night I once spent in a room at the White Eagle. If you get the chance though, head down to Old Town Pizza by yourself on a quiet, preferably rainy weeknight right around 9 or so. Have a seat on the first floor, around the corner from the kitchen or, if you're feeling really daring, the table in the old elevator shaft.
Supposedly, many years ago, a prostitute named Nina was tossed down the shaft after she threatened to rat on her employer. If the legends are to be believed, she still wanders around the place in a white dress and occasionally pesters the staff. If you can get through your solitary meal without moving into the other room you're a braver person than I.
I found myself in the middle of a debate about this other night. What's the correct recipe for one of the most offensively-titled drinks of all time? Or at least one of the most politically-themed, offensively-titled drinks of all time?
Here's the recipe for all of the "Irish Car Bombs" I've enjoyed on various St. Patrick's Days in the past. First, fill a pint glass 2/3s of the way full of stout. Then find a shot glass, put in a little cream, fill it to the top with whiskey, set the whiskey on fire, drop the shot glass in the pint glass and then chug the whole mess quickly before the cream curdles.
Now I'm told that this isn't the correct way and that fire shouldn't be incorporated at all. The internet confirms this, stating that a proper Irish Car Bomb should be made with Baileys instead of cream and that a flame should come nowhere near the whiskey. WTF? Where's the fun in that? I say that the lack of fire takes the "bomb" right out of the mix. Call this concoction what you will but, in my book, no fire = no Irish Car Bomb. This version might be better dubbed the "Wussy Wuss Bailey Wannabe Irish Car Bomb Wuss Fest That Isn't Actually an Irish Car Bomb."
Your thoughts?
Anyway, happy St. Patrick's Day, everybody. I'll conclude this post with my favorite Irish toast: "may the best of your yesterdays be the worst of your tomorrows."
Last Wednesday night I went to the Someday Lounge to see an "opera cinema" production of Camille/La Traviata hosted by Opera Theater Oregon. I went with my sister, who has been to these shows before and her boypal, who has not been to these shows before.
She attended one the company's performances last year with a group of coworkers and they all got super-smashed and had a great time. The crowd at Wednesday's show was much more subdued and sober, as was a certain boypal who almost immediately lost interest in the performance and decided to spend the following two hours complaining about his chair.
To be honest though? Those chairs were pretty uncomfortable.
Something like this isn't for everyone but it's fun, in a drama geek kinda way. As a film, in this case Rudolph Valentino's silent 1921 version of Camille, plays on a screen in the background, a cast of singers and musicians provide the soundtrack. On Thursday night the vocal performances didn't always match up with the actors on screen but I don't know if that was their goal in the first place.
The live cast was dressed in Prohibition-era costumes and a cigarette girl came out before the show and during intermission to hawk candy. Whatever happened to cigarette girls? Sure, the recent smoking ban has put the final nail in the coffin of any would-be local aspirants to the field but this was the first one I'd ever encountered in a local establishment. And she wasn't even allowed to sell cigarettes. I settled for a pack of those icky-tasting Valentines hearts instead.
Opera Theater Oregon wrapped up Camille/La Traviata on Sunday but they'll be back in June with a production that will fuse Wagner's Das Rheingold with an episode from the fifth season of Baywatch. Now that's what I call high-culture.
This was also my first trip to the Someday Lounge. I never did figure out what was up with the creepy knickknacks tucked into an awning overlooking the dance floor or the large velvet bed hanging over the main entrance.
Repeal Day celebrations seem like they suddenly sprung out of nowhere a few years ago. That's probably because they kinda, sorta did, at least around Portland. Last year was the first time I'd heard of it. This year seems like it was coming into its own as a proper drinking holiday, most likely aided by the fact that it fell on a Friday.
The Baghdad Theater hosted an event with musicians and people in '20s-era duds handing out appropriate attire at the door. Black fedoras for the guys, red boas for the ladies. At 11 PM they rolled out a screening of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The significance? No idea. Maybe there's some bootlegger subtext in the film that's completely lost on me?
Here's hoping Repeal Day goes on to become an annual tradition worthy of St. Patrick's Day. You can never have enough drinking-themed holidays, even if they do pack on the pounds. Speaking of which, here's a handy tool that calculates the food-equivalent of how much booze you consumed the night prior.
My dad and I were on the fourth hole of the manor's golf course last night when I heard "With a Little Help From My Friends" off in the distance. Ringo Starr was there with the All Star Band and their show on the hotel's front lawn totally screwed up my putts. I blame "Dreamwaver" for the ball I lost in the brier on hole nine. Thanks for nothing, Gary Wright.
We stayed long enough to eavesdrop on part of the set from the rocking chairs on one of the hotel's porches. A drunk couple sitting nearby decided to slur their way through "Yellow Submarine" before staggering into the show when the guards working the gate weren't paying attention.
After a half-hearted six month search I finally consumed legalized absinthe within US borders a few weeks ago. In the weeks leading up to this, I heard rumors that bottles could be found at liquor stores around town. A trip to the Pearl Specialty Market last winter turned up nothing and I never got a chance to follow-up on a reader's tip that absinthe could be found at a liquor shop tucked inside the Garden Home Thriftway.
The opportunity presented itself at the Highland Stillhouse in Oregon City, a tavern that typically caters to all things Scottish. A few friends and I were sitting in the Highland's upstairs parlor when I noticed a chalkboard on the wall with a tell-tale green fairy drawn on it. The Highland has two different kinds of absinthe on hand, an 80-proof and 120-proof, if memory serves. We went with the 80. Because it's cheaper and I am cheap.
For $8 a head the bartender brought out a clear bottle, tumblers, sugar cubes, absinthe spoons, the whole bit. I've heard reports that the stuff that's now legal in the US is a bastardized version of what you can find overseas and that the level of wormwood mixed-in is supposedly lower. I'm no expert but I once embarrassed myself by ordering absinthe in a UK bar and, for me at least, the varieties available at the Highlands seemed to pack the same punch. Maybe the effects are psychosomatic but I'm convinced that absinthe offers a different sort of drunkenness than your average liquor.
None of us spotted Tinkerbell floating around afterwards though. Maybe she arrives sometime after a third glass but I wasn't willing to contend with a bar tab that would get me that far.
On a related note, I'm convinced the Highlands has the best bar bathroom in the Portland metro area. I don't think any other drinking establishment here can top its English inn decor. If only all public potties could be described as "cozy." Here's a cell phone photo that doesn't even come close to capturing the bed and breakfast feel of it:
I've spent many a weekend evening in the Goose Hollow Inn. This little tavern, owned by former Portland mayor Bud Clark, never seems to get any respect in local drinking guides put out annually by the city's alt-weeklies but it remains my favorite place to toss back a pint around here. The Goose Hollow has a mean Reuben sandwich on the menu and, of all the drinking establishments I've been to in Portland, it draws the most eclectic crowd. Spotted over there on Saturday night:
Several members of Willamette Week's editorial staff.
Two beauty contestants in evening gowns. I'm pretty sure one was Ms. Mississippi, the other was from Nebraska.
Wonder Woman.
Barack Obama, Hilary and Bill Clinton.
A group in '70s-era gym wear.
Four dozen people in togas. They invaded the porch right around the time we went looking for the tab.
All of this had a lot to do with the Starlight Run but I don't see how anybody can run 3.1 miles in an evening gown. While most of these people were dressed in costume, I'm pretty sure the folks from WW were dressed in their native garb.
I'm not big on Bloody Marys but I had the chance to try a sip of one made with bacon-infused vodka at the Florida Room on Memorial Day. The beach-themed bar on N. Killingsworth has an extensive menu devoted to the hangover helpers. Somewhere beneath the tomato juice I tasted something vaguely piggy. It wasn't enough to make me a fan of Bloody Marys but it's nice to know that something like bacon-infused vodka exists in this world. In hindsight, I guess I should have ordered a shot of it to get the full effect.
Bonus semi-factoid: bacon-infused vodka may or not render the bacon used in the process fat-free. [link]
That seems to be the case. I drove by everyone's favorite track suit-infested restaurant and lounge a few days ago and, from the street, it looks like the inside has been gutted. There's a chain link fence blocking the driveway.
Despite my love of giant octopus balloons, I've never eaten at Greek Cusina. I guess I'll hold off on giving the place a shot, especially now that it can no longer, er, serve shots.
Tonight the original location of the Virginia Cafe on SW Park is slated to go dark forever. Possibly as I type these words, the owners are/will be stagging a ceremonial "bar stool crawl" from the old spot to the new one on SW 10th.
I made it down there on Saturday night for one last gin and tonic. Half of the booths were torn out and the second level loft was all but bare. Most, if not all, of the memorabilia and decor was removed from the walls and the area over the bar. The Virginia will, of course, live on but it was sad to see a locale with that much history breathing its last breaths. I was never a regular but I harbor enough warm memories of this nearly century-old boozehole to shed a tear for its passing.
What made the original Virginia Cafe so great was that it was a perfect combination of classy and sleazy; dank but not too dank. It's the closet I've come to a bar in Portland along the lines of Cheers. A sentence like that might make the owners and those more familiar with the Virginia cringe but I mean it as a compliment (or maybe the Veritable Quandary would be a more apt nomination?). The layout and ambiance were dead on for a downtown bar and the location was perfect. It wasn't the sort of place you'd bring a first date but it was always there when you needed to kill time before a movie or a place to take a friend from out of town you're not sure could handle a place like the Shanghai Tunnel. The owners seem bent on recreating the experience on SW 10th so here's hoping only the Virginia's address will change.
I felt the need to forever preserve this bit of graffiti in mens room. You're welcome, internet.
I also wonder if anyone's going to salvage the old Zell Bros clock next door before the block is torn down. At the very least, it would look great over someone's mantle.
Various friends of mine have developed a habit of giving me odd gifts from their travels. Unfortunately, my attempts to reciprocate are typically thwarted by poor planning and international laws. I still feel bad for letting a cashier at a duty-free shop at Heathrow talk me out of smuggling a bottle of absinthe back to the states last fall. I had to settle for gin instead. Lame? Yeah, I know, I know.
Partially out of guilt but mostly due to a lack of things to blog about during these dull winter days, I've decided to showcase some of these gifts in a series of posts that are sure to thrill you all. First up....
...this bottle of mezcal, which was picked up during a friend's recent trip to Puerto Vallarta. He handed it over with a perquisite, half-serious warning that it might cause me to hallucinate. I'd heard the legends surrounding this precursor to tequila before but always thought the alleged hallucinatory effects would kick in only if I ate the worm at the bottom of the bottle.
A little internet research suggests otherwise. Not only do most brands of mezcal pack roughly the same alcoholic punch as the average bottle of tequila, the stuff won't cause you to trip out. According to this, the confusion stems from the simple fact that "mezcal" sounds a lot like "mescaline." Mezcal is distilled using agave plants as a chief ingredient, not the mescal cactus, the source of a few no-doubt lovely hallucinogenics like peyote.
Still unconvinced and, purely in the interest of research, I decided to conduct my own experiment on a recent Saturday night. Three shots of mezcal consumed in short succession resulted in no hallucinatory effects, I'm sad to say. It did, however, make Farce of the Penguins seem like the funniest movie ever filmed for around twenty minutes.
Also, the "worms" packaged with mezcal aren't worms at all. Wikipedia says the two insects most commonly found at the bottom of bottles tend to be the agave snout weevil or a certain species of caterpillar. Er...yum. All things considered, I like the idea of a worm better.
Will I be eating my agave snout weevil and/or caterpillar once I finish off the bottle? Probably not. Not because I'm afraid I'll embark on a spiritual journey involving a "Space Coyote" voiced by Johnny Cash. It has more to do with a certain scene in Poltergeist II involving Craig T. Nelson and a character that has become known in horror movie lore as the "vomit creature" (here's a link, click on it, if you dare).
If you aren't completely disgusted yet, here's a link to a short Washington Postarticle about snake wine, a much stranger medicinal beverage found throughout SE Asia that comes packaged with fermented reptiles. Also available: scorpion and seahorse wine. Sounds tasty!
For too long Portland has been in dire need of a bar that looks like an Arizona tourist trap crossbred with a PF Chang's and a tiki bar. Thankfully, a while back the owners of A Roadside Attraction (1000 SE 12th Ave) came along to fill this gap. Plopped on the edge of SE's industrial district, the bar is one of the weirder drinking establishments in town.
From the sidewalk A Roadside Attraction looks like a warehouse that's been converted into some sort of clubhouse. An outdoor seating area behind a large, wooden fence is littered with knicknacks and cubby-hole booths. Inside, different types of East meet different types of West. A sign swiped from the Pendleton Round-Up advises patrons to keep their clothes on at all times. The bar itself may as well have been stolen from a beach house. A large, red pool table sits in the middle of a room filled with booths and decor possibly rescued from a long-forgotten Chinese restaurant. Street signs lead to the bathrooms. If I ever become a rich eccentric, Roadside Attraction is what my living room will no doubt like.
It's non-smoking and the small menu offers entrees like crab cakes and kabobs. When the weather finally clears up I hope to add the place to my growing list of places around town to kill time on a sunny day.
The owners are looking to transfer into the new location sometime in late February. More info, including some great historical tidbits, can be found in this story from today's Oregonian.
In a comment on a previous post, Lelo of Lelo in Nopo pointed out that chi-chi means something in Spanish that has little to do with one of the cocktails on the menu at Thatch. I punched the word into the Urban Dictionary and Webster's and, apparently, it means something different depending on where you're standing on the planet:
In Mexico it means "tits."
In Japan it means "daddy."
In Jamaica it means something along the lines of "pussy."
In France it means "frilly or elaborate ornamentation."
In various English-speaking locales it means "trendy or pretentious."
But in a certain tiki bar on NE Broadway it means "vodka, coconut milk and pineapple juice in a coconut cup."
I've been looking to buy a bottle of absinthe since I heard that federal restrictions surrounding the liquor had been lifted here in the states. While I could probably track down a bottle online and have it shipped to me, I'm determined to buy one in a Portland liquor store.
Following a rumor I read online, I headed down to Pearl Specialty Market & Spirits in search of one. Sadly, the only thing they had on their shelves was "absente," a bastardized version of the real-deal that's been available in the US for years now. I spoke with a clerk and he said they're still at least a few months away from carrying absinthe on their shelves. He also mentioned that two local distilleries are in the early stages of producing their own brands.
I sent an email to one, House Spirits, the makers of Medoyeff Vodka and Aviation Gin, and received a reply about a day later. I guess they're working on it but the legalities surrounding absinthe production in the states is still murky. It could be a while before it hits the streets.
All things considered, I'm thinking it could be summer before I find even an imported bottle on a local liquor store shelf.
