BAR PILOT - March 2009

In the Zone

What is a stumble zone? Just walk this way…

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 31, 2009 at 02:34PM 6 Comments

Don’t end up like this guy. Imbibe wisely and stick to your stumble zone.

Courtesy stareblankly.com

A friend of mine recently told me, “Hey John, when it comes to bars, you’re like the Pied Piper. Except you usually lead us into traffic.” Aw, that’s so sweet.

It’s true, I know where to get a drink in this town. As God-given talents go, it ranks far, far behind sculpting, healing, and belching the alphabet, but hey, you play the cards you’re dealt.

As a card-carrying member of the drinking illuminati, I’m often asked about bars that I like to frequent. Ah, now that would be telling. One of the rules about secret watering holes is not to discuss secret watering holes. The next thing you know, that quiet, dignified, old-man bar that you regard as your own personal fortress of solitude is overrun by off-brand hipsters in PBR T-shirts demanding that the proprietor replace Lightnin’ Hopkins on the jukebox with the Strokes. Sorry, not on my watch.

I can, however, give you a shaky shove in the right direction and hopefully fuel your spirit of adventure with two simple words: stumble zone.

Contrary to popular belief, a stumble zone is not merely a cluster of bars and taverns packed together in the same vicinity, whose proximity makes for a convenient night of carousing. As my pal Sal Dali used to say, “There’s more to this picture—and it involves melted clocks.”

A true stumble zone should be more than an evening’s distraction; it should be a cultural odyssey. Begin at a nice, respectable joint. A place where you can safely order food without signing a waiver. Pricey cocktails, breathable air, and reasonably attractive people would indicate that you’ve landed in the right spot.

From there, your next three destinations should be heavy on atmosphere, but they should also represent a noticeable decline in quality. Like your own increasingly impaired judgment, your night out ought to capture a feeling of descent. What kind of descent is for you to decide: joy, degradation, oblivion, idiocy—the possibilities are endless. As long as you manage to complete the journey from debonair to degenerate.

A stumble zone should also present you with plenty of options. In other words, it’s vital that you get out of your comfort zone and rub elbows (or whatever) with folks you wouldn’t normally associate with. After all, nothing brings people of all type and temperament together like a Dark and Stormy or two. Besides, you’ll never learn anything by hanging around with people who think the way you do.

Your stops should offer contrasting clientele (bohemian, redneck, gay, beer snob, punk, bridge & tunnel, colorful oldsters), different diversions (TV sports, DJ, live band, karaoke, strippers, comedy, pinball, quiet despair), and varied potables (cocktails, craft beers, cheap beer, sake, wine, coffee). But by the end of the night, you should be somewhere you never dreamed of going. The scarier the better. Then, and only then, will you discover what sort of person you really are. Timid sheep? Fearless leader? Pathetic souse?

In future posts, I’ll provide sure-fire detailed routes for some of my favorite stumble zones, in an effort to get you all better acquainted with our fair city.

It should be noted that I’m a firm believer in personal responsibility. Not in the Ayn Rand sense, but rather in getting your boozy butt home in one piece. While the term “stumble zone” implies a certain cavalier attitude toward sobriety, revelers should keep a glass of water handy throughout the evening. And don’t forget to shovel some grub into that piehole to ward off the whirlies! Most importantly, a stumble zone should be readily accessible to public transportation, a taxi, or at least to a sober buddy who owes you a favor. Stay tuned.

Add a Comment »

Tags: Stumble Zone

Are You Nuts?

Booze is better when it’s covered in fur

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 26, 2009 at 02:08PM 2 Comments

Need a classy container for your top-shelf stuff? Squirrel it away!

It’s always a wonderful day in the neighborhood when I get schwag in the mail from brewers or distillers hoping to curry favor with Portland Monthly. T-shirts, a plastic pineapple cocktail shaker, little colorful monkeys for decorating a dull glass—any of these things can inspire my legendary happy dance, which I’m told is remarkably graceful for a man of my bulk. And to all the corporate gift givers out there? I appreciate the gesture, but my integrity can’t be bought for gewgaws and gimcracks.

Until now.

If there’s anyone reading this blog who’s affiliated with www.customcreaturetaxidermy.com, please send me a squirrel decanter without delay. I’ll work the damn thing in someplace, I swear!

See, I just did. Thanks for the tip Garrett!

Have anything on your wish list involving the conversion of furry critters into daringly functional housewares? I want to know.

Add a Comment »

Tags: Cocktails

Say Again?

Yo, barkeep! Give Ted Nugent the night off!

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 24, 2009 at 09:15AM 9 Comments

Attention bartenders and bar managers: on behalf of everyone in the known universe, I’d like to respectfully request that you turn your music down to a conversational level.

Last night I was working my way through a pint of Hopworks Lager at Gold Dust Meridian, when it occurred to me that I was losing every other word spoken to me by my friend Anne Marie (happy birthday!). Normally, I just shrug, smile, and continue to nod my head emphatically at the appropriate dialogue gaps. See, my hearing isn’t the greatest under optimal conditions. I’ve been playing bass in bar bands for more than 20 years, and this stratagem has resulted in about a 15 percent hearing loss. Not only that, I still listen to heavy metal and punk on a daily basis. Fine. You make your choices and you live with them. Curse you, Celtic Frost!

However, Anne Marie was having trouble hearing me, too. As far as I know, her hearing is flawless. So why were we both shouting?

Because the bartender (or other authority figure in the back) was blasting the tunes. On a Monday night. I don’t know if it was the bar iPod or the jukebox, but it was effin’ cranked to eleven! And this isn’t the first time my “relaxing” evening out has been hijacked by some employee’s infinite playlist.

I understand that music adds to a convivial atmosphere and general sense of merriment that induces the clientele to roister just a a little bit harder, to perhaps throw caution to the wind and order another sazerac. On a Monday night.

However, if listening to music was my ultimate goal, I would be at a venue where rawkin’ out was the primary attraction. I would be at the Roseland having my eardrums obliterated by Motorhead, or whatever ensemble happened to be in town that night. But when I go to a neighborhood watering hole for a beer (on a Monday night), my mission is to share pleasantries with my pals. Vent. Unwind. Palaver. Shoot the bull. That sort of thing. This can be difficult to do when the bartender is going through an ironic Journey phase.

At this point, feel free to make disparaging comments about my advanced years. “Just turn down your hearing aid,” or “Don’t bring your ear trumpet to the bar with you, Grampa,” are both excellent. But I know the difference between loud music and LOUD MUSIC. This same situation came up at the Sway Bar a few weeks ago as well. Hardly anyone in the place, and the bartender (or other authority figure in the back) is laboring under the illusion that what a table full of chatty customers wants, more than another Makers and soda, more than free beer nuts, is to be introduced to the sonic wonders of Shellac or Slipknot, to the point where an amiable exchange between comrades becomes an aural impossibility. Our party of eight ended up walking down the street to the Morrison Hotel where we weren’t being pummeled by somebody’s “extreme” musical tastes.

OK, give me some feedback here. Am I being unreasonable? It wouldn’t be the first time. I was an alternate on the 1996 Olympic unreasonable team. When I get a bee in my bonnet, I’m worse than Andy Rooney after his third Red Bull. Should I simply take my business elsewhere? Or can I use this blog to make a braying ass out of myself the way God and Al Gore intended?

Add a Comment »

Tags: music, Bar Culture

Friday on My Mind

Stuff to do in the next 72 (hours)

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 20, 2009 at 03:11PM 3 Comments

Drunken Prayer’s Miss Audra and Morgan Geer testify about temptation.

Photo courtesy Drunken Prayer

Normally, our weekend cultural roundup is the purview of man-about-town Bart Blasengame, but he’s currently “out on assignment” as we say in the journalism biz. We’re not exactly sure where he is at the moment, but it’s undoubtedly someplace chock full of danger and intrigue. Bart, if you don’t come back, dibs on your office.

Decisions, decisions. Tonight there are a pair of dynamite shows, and your preference my boil down to your drug of choice. At Crystal Ballroom, the Brian Jonestown Massacre, possibly the most dysfunctional band on the planet, will favor the crowd with its trademark maraca-shaking hallucinatory grooves. Watch as volatile front man Anton Newcombe loses his cool over something trivial and has a hissy fit with his bandmates. For further explanation, cast your peepers on the pop documentary Dig for more of his manic moments.

Over at the Doug Fir, local hicks Drunken Prayer salute the release of a new Live EP recorded with legendary Wipers and Napalm Beach drummer Sam Henry, called, …with Sam Henry. Drunken Prayer singer Morgan Geer is like a 21st-century Elmer Gantry—a righteous and spiritual man on Sunday, but Saturday nights are reserved for whiskey, women, and other unavoidable obligations.

If you can’t abide that twangin’ gee-tar, Saturday night sees former Count Basie trumpeter Byron Stirling sitting in with the Oregon Symphony. Stirling’s jazz cred is top-notch, having blown his horn with the bands of Lionel Hampton, Dizzy Gillespie, and Louis Bellson. “Soul of New Orleans” is the name of the show, and will feature Stirling paying tribute to some of the Big Easy’s best, including Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, and Cab “Hidey-hidey-hidey-ho” Calloway.

But enough about you and your constant need for distraction! How about giving a little something back? Down at the World Trade Center, World Water Day fun and festivities will be going on all afternoon and into the evening capped by a performance from radiant songbird Stephanie Schneiderman, one-third of melodious local trio Dirty Martini. All of the cash you cough up at this hydro-happening will go to bringing H20 to drought-stricken communities in West Africa. So c’mon already! Those wells ain’t gonna dig themselves.

Oh, and Portland Farmers Market opens this Saturday at the PSU Park Blocks. We sow the seed, nature grows the seed, it’s the circle of life, baby.

Without further ado, here’s the Easybeats with the best weekend anthem ever.

Add a Comment »

Tags: Weekend Plans, Live

I Want Candy!

No, it’s not good for you. Deal with it.

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 17, 2009 at 11:00AM 6 Comments

Right off the bat, I gotta say the tawdry logo for this place had me thinking it was an escort service. An open, heavily lipsticked mouth forms the letter “C” which is followed by “andy” in a breathless, seductive script.

Candy is a high-gloss bistro that opened two weeks ago in the old Mercado location in the Pearl. The interior look is pure futuristic Vegas sports bar (March Madness enthusiasts could do worse), but it just as easily could have been a bar designed for Tom Hanks’s character in Big. The booths come with 20-inch touch-screen monitors for your surfing and gaming enjoyment, and the menu is loaded with all manner of beguiling junk. If you’re feeling ambitious, you can build your own pizza. Or assemble your own burger. I didn’t see any of the customers puttering about in the kitchen, so I would assume this means you can ask for whatever ingredients you want.

But it’s the drink menu that really looks to lure in the whipper-snappers. Like the witch’s gingerbread condo in Hansel and Gretel, it all appears to be super-duper yummy deleesh—with just a whiff of evil lurking beneath the frosting and whipped cream. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I ordered the Death By Twinkie, a towering milkshake with a golden sponge cake crumbled into it, accompanied by a heavy pour of Bacardi, but I punished the bastard. Everyone who walked by stared at me as if I was deranged, and one of my friends announced, “That looks disgusting. You’re not going to drink it are you?”

Well, uhm, yes. I loved every teeth-aching slurp of that hideous parfait. Yes, I realize I was taking three months off my life expectancy. And I’d do it again! No, I will not become a regular. But who among us has not spent a day raging over spreadsheets and infernal deadlines, dreaming of a big boozy milkshake? Pacify your inner child and engage your outer lush at the same time!

The fresh-cut potato chips delivered an earthy crunch, but my friend’s Fountain of Youth (Grey Goose, elder flower liqueur and acai juice) was left untouched after a few exploratory sips. “Too sweet,” she grimaced. Indeed, if you’re lacking a sweet tooth, the drink menu has little to recommend it: the Candy Apple, Sour Caramel Apple, White Chocolate Martini, Lemon Head, and Cherry Cordial are some of the more bizarrely saccharine options.

I didn’t care, though. I was thoroughly engrossed in trivia challenge on the touch-screen, and a scant nine levels later, it was time to bid Candy a fond farewell.

I’d be lying if I said I liked the place, or dug the concept. It’s a temple of indulgence that caters to our most juvenile impulses. But time passes at Candy. There’s no way you can chug a Death By Twinkie (beware the dreaded ice cream headache), and if you start web surfing you’re surely doomed.

Strangely enough, the menu states that on Friday and Saturday nights, patrons must be over 26 to get in. Is that even legal? I wondered. The waitress assured me the OLCC was fine with it. “We’re trying to cater to an older crowd,” she said.

Hmmm. An older crowd in need of a sugar buzz, perhaps? I hope they realize they’re not going to move many Death By Twinkies over the weekend. That is, unless I’m in the neighborhood.

Add a Comment »

Tags: Bar Openings

Honest Pints—At Last

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 11, 2009 at 04:00PM 7 Comments

Keep going, keep going…

I’m not going to name names. You villains know who you are. I’m directing this particular hissy fit at drinking establishments that charge me for a pint of beer (and if it’s more than $4.50, a pox on you) but only pour a measly fourteen ounces or so. Whether it’s a glass that’s not been properly filled, or through the use of “cheater pint” glasses, this thirsty citizen is being tragically denied his full measure of ale. But justice—and full pints—may soon be served.

My totally awesome state representative is taking decisive action on this latest affront to the working man. The honorable Jules Kopel-Bailey (D-SE Portland) is the co-sponsor of HB 3122, the so-called Honest Pint Act, the passage of which would create a voluntary program of compliance in order to recognize bars and pubs that provide their clientele with sixteen legitimate ounces of beer. When a watering hole demonstrates that it routinely pours full pints, it would receive designation as an Honest Pint establishment, a venue where customers can quaff in peace, knowing they’re not being hosed by unscrupulous tap jockeys.

Kopel-Bailey’s chief of staff, Meredith Shield, notes, “We love our beer and we hope this bill will get a hearing.” HB 3122 is currently at the speaker’s desk awaiting referral to committee. Needless to say, I heartily endorse this piece of legislation with every soggy fiber of my being.

Add a Comment »

Tags: Beer

Tropical Paradise

We love karaoke at the Alibi, but why not ramp up the exotica?

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 09, 2009 at 02:09PM 2 Comments

Man, there was no sign of a faltering economy at the Alibi on Saturday night. Between the karaoke crew, at least three birthday parties (happy birthday Jane!), and the usual assortment of post-collegiate riff raff, there wasn’t room to toss a cookie.

I love the Alibi. True, I have griped in print about their propensity for weak, pricey drinks, but for that good ol’ Trader Vic’s vibe, you can’t beat this room. Order a Banana Cabana and take in the day-glo Polynesian art, saltwater aquarium, and assorted surfside knickknacks, and experience some much-needed continental drift away from a dismal present.

What I don’t understand, considering all the awesome tiki bar accoutrements, is why management doesn’t go all in with the island theme. How come the waitresses aren’t decked out in sarongs or grass skirts? Why aren’t the bartenders wearing beach attire or at least loud Hawaiian shirts? Karaoke is all well and good, but the room could be put to better use. Couldn’t we have a Don Ho tribute act once in a while? A hula contest? The occasional surf band?

It’s certainly considerate that they put out free food at midnight. Nothing soaks up a surfeit of rum like Swedish meatballs and chicken wings. Is it too much to ask for a side of fruit salad? Pineapple is super-sweet and succulent at the moment. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful and I’m not expecting a luau every night of the week. But the average boring, nondescript bar would kill for this setup, not mention the vintage neon out front that’s visible from space. So I move that we double down on the tropical concept. What say you, drinking buddies?

Add a Comment »

Tags: NoPo

The Saddest Little Bar in Town

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 05, 2009 at 05:22PM 9 Comments

“Let me tell you about our specials.”

For you, my dear drinking buddies, a mystery. I recently spent an hour in one of the most wretched excuses for a bar I’ve encountered this side of Tierra del Fuego. It was situated not in some hayseed hole-in-the-wall en route to Gresham, but smack-dab in the middle of a bustling, hipster ’hood. Your task will be to guess the identity of this unfortunate establishment.

The bar, formerly a modest music venue, had changed hands in December. The current incarnation took its name from the owner’s 180-pound English mastiff, a hulking creature that stumbled down the stairs to greet us upon our arrival. The dinky bar fronted a sink, an ancient Philco fridge, and a small, haphazard collection of booze bottles on a shelf. It was a very humble, DIY setup, kind of like a communist’s idea of a decadent, Western rumpus room, perhaps gleaned from really old magazines. Heart-shaped balloons and a few mopey Cupids were strewn artlessly about.

“So you guys had a Valentine’s Day party?” I asked the sullen bartender, who was testing her knowledge at the video trivia machine. There was one other customer, a skeevy bearded guy who was wolfing down a grilled-cheese sandwich with the unbridled zeal of a shipwreck survivor.

“Nobody came,” she replied wearily, getting up from the machine to take our drink orders. The “specialty cocktail” list was scrawled on a nearby dry-erase board, with each day of the week having it’s own $3 offering. The drink of the day was a Bloody Mary, so we decided to indulge.

I suppose we should have known we weren’t in the presence of a master mixologist as we observed the bartender’s prolonged struggle to assemble our drinks. Dynasties rose and fell as she puzzled out the ingredients, finally liberating a forlorn bottle of tomato juice from the Philco. The results were ghastly: imagine off-brand ketchup spiked with iodine—or better yet don’t. I immediately reached for the Tabasco sauce and gave the miserable concoction a thorough soaking. I looked over at my friend who appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I can’t drink this!” she wailed.

“How are those drinks?” the bartender inquired with a knowing smirk. I can’t remember what we said in return, but I’ll wager it was diplomatic enough to fool Henry Kissinger.

At this point, the proprietor, who was either a semi-prosperous hobo, or was blissfully unaware of a new invention called the iron, bounded down the stairs. He stopped to scratch his dog, who was stretched out at our feet like a huge, panting sofa. “This guy can eat 21 Whopper Juniors,” the owner declared as an icebreaker, indicating his hound. “And he buried four others!” Resisting the urge to phone animal control, I made chitchat with the owner as my friend thoughtfully poured her Bloody Mary into my glass. Then the bearded guy started blathering about the Sam Adams scandal. Time effectively stopped.

Somehow I managed to dry my tears and choke down the Tabasco-saturated cocktail so we could make our escape. “Come back soon,” the owner called after us. Yep, I’ll be back for another visit right after Madonna wins an Oscar (for acting) and the Trail Blazers trade Shavlik Randolph for Dwight Howard, straight up.

Can you name this bar?

Add a Comment »

Tags: Southeast

What’ll You Have?

Place your drink orders here

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 04, 2009 at 05:11PM 17 Comments

“He enjoys life—as do all who are spared the curse of intelligence.” —H.P. Lovecraft

I may as well add my two cents worth on the subject of Portland being dubbed the unhappiest city in America by BusinessWeek magazine. I never thought of locals as being sad, merely preoccupied with their projects. Let’s see how much time a BusinessWeek reporter has for frivolity while trying to master stilt walking, maintaining a website about kittens, playing in a jug band, and booking gigs for a subversive puppet troupe—all while toiling a back-breaking six hours a week at the co-op. It’s no picnic. Small wonder we’re a city of serious imbibers.

When I notice my own enthusiasm waning, I send out a smoke signal to my rotating cast of degenerate drinking buddies to meet me at some watering hole or other. Granted, this doesn’t make anyone happy as such, but there is something to be said for that old saw about “misery loves company.” Sorrow is definitely a more manageable state in a group setting. Especially while tossing back Tanqueray and tonics.

This issue we have thoughtfully provided you with five compelling reasons to have a stiff drink. I have a feeling we’re just scratching the surface on this topic, so please let me know what you’re drinking and why. It helps to share.

Add a Comment »