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George’s bartender Andy is 5-foot-nothing of hooch-slinging Jedi. And she has to be, because this is the Mos Eisley cantina of Portland: a shady way station for video-poker fiends, MAX renegades, trivia addicts and a sea of future 12-steppers. Black vest buttoned up for business, cigarette jutting like a sniper’s rifle from the side of her mouth, Andy keeps the peace by keeping the taps nodding. When there’s not peace, however, we recommend sliding a buck into the jukebox to drown out the muffled strains of Andy wrestling another drunk out the door.

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