BAR PILOT - June 2009

Happy Hour of the Week: Hobnob Grille

Not so tropical, but the drinks are kickin’.

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 29, 2009 at 03:00PM 18 Comments

Hobnob Grille’s Chocolate Martini is decadent and distinctive.

Below: The Creole Calamari usually disappears quickly.

I make a quick perusal of the premises at Hobnob Grille and discover that something is missing: the floor is spotlessly clean, and there’s not a peanut shell to be found anywhere. Hobnob Grille is located in the former home of (in chronological order) Sweetwater Jam House, Salvador Molly’s, and Calypso, at the corner of SE 34th Avenue and Morrison Street, but the established tropical theme has gone bon voyage, as the new regime favors roomy booths, solid American comfort food, and a delightful drink menu.

After registering my standard complaint about happy hours that end at 6 p.m. (“Happy, my ass! I just got here and I get a whole five minutes to decide what I’m having?”), I order the drink of the day ($3), the seasoned fries ($2), a plate of calamari ($4), and the flatbread pizza ($4). My ire over having to make hasty decisions is lessened by the arrival of the Northwest Basil, a mojito variation that positively sings on the palate. Made with Medoyeff vodka, apple cider, and heaps of basil, the proportions are precisely poured and blended, the result a refreshing wash of sweet, sour, bitter, and sharp fruit notes. My friend Lucy opts for the Pink ($7.50), an even fruitier concoction, featuring vodka infused with blueberries and raspberries, and a pretty candied rose petal floating merrily on top.

The waitress explains that the drink of the day is the first cocktail ordered on a given afternoon. I make a note to have one of my unemployed friends show up at Hobnob the next day at 4:01 p.m. and order a Long Island Iced Tea.

The chow isn’t as exotically ambitious as the Caribbean cuisine of yesteryear, but it’s a heckuva lot less spotty. The flatbread pizza is loaded with onions, red peppers, and mushrooms, and even after a healthy period of time elapsed, it remained firm and flavorful, worth cleaning the plate over. The fries are fine, but the addition of a curry-infused ketchup really gets this side dish up on its feet. The calamari is served Cajun style, seasoned with red pepper, onions, and garlic, and four bucks gets you a mess of it.

My late-arriving friends miss the happy-hour cutoff, but seem content with the full-price dinner options like steak and fried chicken. Perhaps due to the potency of our cocktails, one of my drinking buddies and I split a chocolate martini. Normally, I’m a traditional kind of guy when it comes to martinis (always gin, never vodka), but the prospect of a drink made with Godiva chocolate and house-made chocolate-and-vanilla vodka makes me rather giddy. This cloying cocktail is as thick and rich as a drive-in milkshake and the chocolate-vanilla blend is dreamy. Between the two of us, we can’t conquer such a caloric confection, and it takes several passes around the table before it’s drained, leaving my crew and I happy and sated. Even a contingent of braying asses hollering at the televised sporting event at the bar can’t dampen our goodwill.

Now if I can only prevail upon the Hobnob Grille’s management to keep happy hour intact for another hour, all of my thumbs will be up. It’s a pleasure to find a decent happy hour in Southeast Portland, mere blocks from my abode. It makes homeward navigation so much less stressful.

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Tags: Happy Hour

Forever Fresh

I never knew I was a Young Fresh Fellow before.

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 23, 2009 at 04:00PM 4 Comments

Young Fresh Fellows rip it up at Dante’s.

Below, From Words to Blows casts its spell.

For me, going out to a rock show means looking straight into the cruel, bottomless eye sockets of death. Yes, I know I’m being a melodramatic wuss.

See, I don’t go out much anymore. Covering the local music milieu for more than a dozen years has taken its toll on both my hearing and my patience, and these days my love of rock ‘n’ roll is mostly platonic. If I’m seeing an up-and-coming band, I am invariably the oldest duffer in the room, except for the odd parent or two. Being reminded of your dwindling vitality is a drag, and having to get jacked on Pepsi to stay alert wreaks havoc on my stomach. If I’m seeing an old standby, I’ll run into people I’ve known forever, but they’ll be out the door early because they have to get the sitter home. Or, more likely, they’ve become broken-down shells of their formerly dynamic selves. I put myself in this category. Hand me my shawl and help me into my rocking chair, won’t you, young fellow?

But a blazing set by the Young Fresh Fellows at Dante’s, part of a lethal triple-threat lineup last Saturday, was invigorating. I felt like Don friggin’ Ameche in Cocoon or something. I may even have danced, but that part could have been a dream.

It’s such a bonus to get three worthy bands at one show. Nothing kills an evening’s momentum more than having to sit through an endless set by some no-talent friends of the doorman who managed to weasel their way onto the bill. And can we agree that four bands on one bill is too many? Good.

It was a pleasure seeing From Words to Blows, the new group led by Jesse Emerson, a cool guy who’s patiently stood in the background playing bass for bands such as the Flatirons and Amelia. Now he’s got a guitar and a whole string of songs that fly out of him like subtle, puzzling pop darts that always hit their target. Still trying to come up with a decent style description. Can music be dark, pensive, and fun? Apparently. The lovely Susannah Weaver (aka Little Sue) plays bass and sweetly sings backup, and Steve Drizos from Jerry Joseph and the Jackmormons hits the drums like they owe him money. Normally the two of them would be joined by Decemberists’ keyboardist Jenny Conlee, but she’s currently on tour making loads and loads of cash.

From Words to Blows casts its spell.

The Tripwires, fronted by Jon Ramberg, are an enviably catchy group that sound like Squeeze or Elvis Costello with just a hint of roots-rock toughness baked into the crust.

As for the headliners, if you’ve never seen the Young Fresh Fellows live, you are truly bereft. Showering the crowd with everything from loony power pop to rude riffage, and showing no signs of decrepitude after 25 years of servitude to the dark gods, this wily ensemble boasts a four-star songwriter in Scott McCaughey, who’s usually busy with his primary band the Minus 5. Bassist Jim Sangster (also a member of the Tripwires) bounces on the bottom end, pushed along by one of my favorite manic (maniac?) drummers, Tad Hutchison, who likes to tell corny jokes like, “Hey Scott! Did you hear I got laid off from my job at the orange juice factory? They said I couldn’t concentrate!” Lead guitarist Kurt Bloch is not only a primo songwriter in his own right, he can also play Queen’s “Brighton Rock” note for note. Mixing YFF staples such as “My Friend Ringo,” “Taco Wagon,” and “I Don’t Let the Little Things Get Me Down,” with zesty material off their brand-new release I Think This Is, this quartet of geezers my own age, entirely satisfied with modest achievements and a terrific repertoire of songs, relentlessly kicked ass and jumped around like grasshoppers on a griddle. It did my old baboon heart a world of good.

Hell, I’m getting the band back together! Look out world! Never mind the Metamucil!

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Tags: Night Life, band, music

May I Drink with Danger?

Let’s hear about the scariest dives in Portland—and elsewhere.

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 19, 2009 at 09:00AM 6 Comments

As I was hiking down W Burnside Street on my way to work yesterday, I had to pause for a moment at the former entrance to Dugo’s, a seedy little dive that shut its doors more than a year ago. I popped in once in the early part of the century to check the place out after hearing so many tall tales. “If there’s a woman in there, she’s either a prostitute or a crackhead,” one of my long-lost drinking buddies said.

“Most likely both,” someone else told me. “And the clientele is 100 percent parolees. You better watch your step. And for God’s sake, don’t use the bathroom. You’ll never be seen again.”

I must have picked an off-day because it was pretty sleepy when I arrived, just after 5 p.m. A lot of old-timers were sucking on cheap beers, and the bartender was arguing with a bleached-blonde woman who looked like she’d come in for a drink after her weekly electroshock therapy. In other words, it could have been any bar, anywhere, at any time.

I’ve had drinks in some scary joints, mostly in the vicinity of my hometown of Coos Bay (and a few in Kodiak, Alaska). Word to the wise: It’s not a good idea to visit Red’s Tavern in Charleston, Oregon, and ask to see a wine list. (I managed to duck out while the two biker gangs present rumbled over who was going to have the privilege of stomping me.) I once cracked my head on the floor in the men’s room at the Nugget (located in the lobby of the Greyhound station in Coos Bay) after slipping in a pool of blood left over from a tryst between a prostitute and a dissatisfied customer who felt entitled to a refund.

I say this not because I’m trying to firm up my Charles Bukowski drinking credentials (well, maybe a little), but because I want to make a point about the difference between a bar with a nasty reputation and a bar with a well-deserved nasty reputation.

Let’s have some dangerous bar stories, drinking buddies. And if you know of any legitimately scary bars around these parts, please share.

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Tags: Bar Culture

RIP Bob Bogle

Ventures guitarist passes at age 75.

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 16, 2009 at 10:00AM 6 Comments

Just heard the news that Vancouver, Washington, resident Bob Bogle has passed away. Bogle played bass and guitar for Tacoma’s the Ventures, the best-known instrumental surf band in the world. They had their first hit in 1960, nearly fifty years ago, and were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame last year. Anyone unfamiliar with Ventures’ classics like “Walk Don’t Run,” “Apache,” and “Fuzzy and Wild” should immediately sprint over to Music Millennium and stock up. Ride on, Bob. Our best thoughts to family and friends.

This cut isn’t all that surfy, but features some great interplay between Bogle on bass and drummer Mel Taylor.

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Tags: music

Still Stumbling

Can we handle the naked truth?

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 12, 2009 at 02:00PM 10 Comments

Photo by Garrett Milojevich

Well, drinking buddies, Stumble Zone Part Deux is a done deal, and I’m happy to report that there were no casualties (other than the credit limit on my Visa card). A detailed account of our exploits will be forthcoming, but I just wanted to lay a teaser on you. Hint: We were downtown. Second hint: We ended up at a strange and wonderful bar where women remove articles of clothing in exchange for dollar bills! Can you imagine?

Which brings up today’s topic of discussion, that being strip joints. I’m opening the phone lines for your opinions on the matter. Are places like Mary’s Club citadels of worship dedicated to the infinite beauty of the female form, or tawdry tents of sleazery and oppression inhabited by the dregs of humanity? Sorry, those are your only two choices. (Kidding! Kidding! Shades of gray are greatly encouraged. Fanaticism of any kind is such a bore.) I mean, we’ve got more strip clubs per capita than any city in the U.S. of A. What purpose do they serve? Is this part of a larger, more libertarian discussion? Please chime in.

BTW, anyone got change for a twenty?

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Just Plain Folk

Are 12 Shades of Schwilly Silly the next big thing? Sure! Why not?

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 09, 2009 at 01:00PM 15 Comments

Ah, the joys of communal street life in the summertime. I was just waiting for a couple of tacos at the SW Fifth and Oak food carts when this scruffy little ensemble struck up a merry drinking tune. They’re called 12 Shades of Schwilly Silly (sp?) and they’re a free-range musical collective with members from New York, Eugene, Boston, Louisiana, and wherever else they happen to land. Originally I just wanted to check out the cute girl playing the saw, but the Shades’ spicy camp stew of folk-gypsy-Tom-Waits-Pogues-Weill-pirate shanties proved totally captivating. Sal the guitarist described their music as “that feeling you have when you wake up from a great dream and realize you’ve wet the bed.” They’ll be around for a while, and their plans include a house party on Friday somewhere in Southeast. I assume they’ll be playing at it and not just soaking up the beer.

And someone dug their sound so much that they tipped the band a pair of puppies!

Sigh. Theirs is a path I might have chosen had I not opted for four walls, three dogs, a fiancée, and crippling debt. As a middle-aged desk jockey, am I allowed to envy these rambling ragamuffins and their nomadic lifestyle? How say you, drinking buddies?

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Tags: music

Weekend Wonders

A night at the Crystal, a day at the parade, and a graceful pas de deux

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 04, 2009 at 04:00PM 6 Comments

Get an eyeful of Escher at Portland Art Museum this weekend.

Courtesy of Portland Art Museum

What am I doing this weekend? Same thing I always do: Order up a half-dozen pazones and watch old episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 till I slip into a cozy coma.

But that doesn’t mean you have to. In fact, it’s your civic duty to rise and shine on Saturday and plant yourself along SW Broadway (remember, no duct tape!) for the Rose Festival Grand Floral Parade. The fab floats, drum lines, marching bands, and assorted dignitaries waving from convertibles will get rolling at 10 a.m. sharp.

“But why aren’t you going to be there?” you may ask. “How come Bar Pilot isn’t part of the festivities, perhaps puttering across the Burnside Bridge on a float cunningly crafted to look like an enlarged liver?”

I see it’s time to share.

When I was a wee lad, my parents (bless them and keep them) made me attend each and every Rhododendron Festival Parade in Florence, Oregon, till I was old enough to escape and join the military. My twitchy brothers and I were forbidden to run off to the nearby carnival and have actual fun until the parade was absolutely over. This was a quaint, small-town (i.e., low-budget) affair: the floats, such as they were, consisted mainly of gas-guzzling Caddies and Lincolns transporting people I didn’t know down the main drag. Not so bad in itself, but the pace left much to be desired. The vehicles, drill teams, and community groups were spaced so far apart that every kid present believed the parade to be over at least thirty times before it actually wound up with the appearance of an anemic Santa Claus in the back of a jeep pelting the now-seething crowd with gumballs.

Look, all I wanted to do was go on the damn Scrambler a dozen or so times and stuff myself full of elephant ears! Is that too much to ask? Life is short, and I don’t care a fig about the local Rotarians chapter! I HATE PARADES!! LET MY PEOPLE GO!!!

OK, enough childhood trauma. On with the weekend itinerary.

FRIDAY: Sorry, the secret is out about howling country chanteuse Neko Case. No longer a figure of awkward cult adoration, the comely lass’s latest album, Middle Cyclone, made a pretty respectable dent in the charts, and she’s been turning up on the talk-show circuit. She’s a huge fan of Powell’s Books, so doing two nights at the Crystal Ballroom should enable her to expand her library. Whether she’s giving some skanky lover the big kiss-off, as on “Runnin’ Out of Fools,” or cooing a traditional number like “Wayfaring Stranger,” Case’s rafter-rattling voice is a pure, righteous instrument—and sweeter than Yoo-Hoo.

SATURDAY: After you’ve had your fill of the floral fest, hike over to Portland Art Museum for the opening of two exhibitions worth a lengthy look. Virtual Worlds: MC Escher and Paradox, will give museum mavens the chance to consider the world from the perspective(s) of the Dutch printmaker best known for his illusory globes and staircases that inspired much stoned dorm-room contemplation. And PNCA at 100 is a retrospective of works from thirty-two artists who either taught at or attended the Museum Art School (now Pacific Northwest College of Art). Feast your eyes on works by local notables including Louis Bunce, Jay Backstrand, and Sherrie Wolf.

SUNDAY: Fans of the terpsichorean arts should be out in force at Oregon Ballet Theatre’s final program of the 2008-09 season, Rush + Robbins, which includes a trio of works from legendary Broadway and Hollywood choreographer Jerome Robbins. There will also be a staging of Rush, an intimate and lovely dance from Christopher Wheeldon, a former student of Robbins.

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Tags: Art, Events, Weekend Plans, music

Lemonade Stand

Strawberries. Lemonade. And local vodka. I’m so there.

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 03, 2009 at 11:00AM 7 Comments

I got stinking drunk on Mike’s Hard Lemonade a few weeks ago and woke up with a hangover that can best be described as King Kong river-dancing on my brainpan. Vile potion! So it was with lingering memories of cranial devastation that I read a press release this morning about Hello Lovely, a blended strawberry-lemonade cocktail from local spirit purveyors Northwest Distillery, best known for its Liquid Vodka brand (which of course spelled d-o-o-m for my freeze-dried vodka operation—damn!). Owner Meghan Zonich says Hello Lovely is made from natural ingredients (local strawberries!), and there’s not a hint of high-fructose corn syrup to be found in the mix. “We launched it last summer in a limited test-market run, and the demand was overwhelming,” she tells me. Meghan also steers me to the website for some swell cocktail recipes. I suggest one with iced tea, and she seems intrigued (or at least polite).

Mmmm. Spiked strawberry-lemonade iced tea. It’ll be like Arnold Palmer crocked on the back nine at Augusta. Time to get to work. After all, it’s well past five o’clock in England, so I’d best dispatch an intern to the nearest vodka vendor posthaste.

“Hey! Sam! It’s happy hour! Hop down to the boozer and snag me a bottle of Hello Lovely! Yeah, I’ll getcha back next week, buddy, promise!”

Stay tuned.

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Tags: Cocktails