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If Jaws had taken place in Portland instead of on Amity Island, this is the kind of place where doomed Captain Quint would’ve bellied up—cracking clams open with his gnarled hands, swallowing bottles of Genny and soaking up the salty atmosphere that’s stuck in some mid-1970s rock ’n’ reel vortex. The steamers are surprisingly stellar, but it’s the slate of $2 domestic brews that keeps us firmly planted on our stools.