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Drinking & Dining

The Beer Belly Dinner

Dining event offers abundance of brews and foodstuffs

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Cheese
Photo: Emma Hall

Starter: Fraga Farms Goat Cheeses with flat bread, pickled pear and habañero almonds. Served with Cascade’s Spring Gose.

View Slideshow » Photo: Emma Hall

Starter: Fraga Farms Goat Cheeses with flat bread, pickled pear and habañero almonds. Served with Cascade’s Spring Gose.

View Slideshow » Photo: Emma Hall

Appetizer: Chef Jeff’s Cold Smoked Salmon Canapes with Creme Fraiche and Dill. Served with 2009 The Vine.

View Slideshow » Photo: Emma Hall

Appetizer: beer-battered frog legs with caramel sauce. Served with Cascade’s Busta Nut Brown.

View Slideshow » Photo: Emma Hall

Entree: pan-seared rack of spring lamb from SuDan Farms with cherry demi-glace, quinoa tabouli and corn. Served with Cascade Kriek.

View Slideshow » Photo: Emma Hall

Dessert: Beer Belly cheesecake with stone fruit compote. Served with a 2009 Apricot Ale.

ON THE SECOND THURSDAY of each month, EastBurn plays host to the gastronomically challenging Beer Belly Dinner. Pairing a local brewery with the efforts of noteworthy chefs, it’s a four-course feast with accompanying beers for $35. The event is a smashing deal for the amount and quality of food—not to mention the sheer number of award-winning brews that are served—so much so that I almost reluctant to tell anyone about it. Plus, the proceeds all go to RideOn, a local nonprofit whose members will drive you and your car home anywhere in Portland proper for only $15. I admit that I placed one of their cards in my wallet—for a friend.

This month, the featured brewery was Cascade Brewing. Brewers Ron Gansberg and Curtis Bain were on hand to mingle and answer any questions, with Ron looking resplendent in his Hawaiian shirt embellished with hops, no less. Portland chefs Jeff Pagel and Joe Dougherty were also present to introduce each course and quell my fears about eating frog legs.

Cascade presented an amazing array of sour and fruit beers. For someone who only first tried sour beer a few weeks ago, I am now a true believer in these deliciously sweet, palate-cleansing beers.

Though the food and beers were out of this world, the best part of the Beer Belly Dinner is the company. You sit outside in EastBurn’s four-season patio at long tables, squashed in with an interesting array of folks: everyone from craft beer lovers to local beer celebrities. I was fortunate to be totally surrounded by good-natured beer lovers (including the Beer Goddess herself, Lisa Morrison), which made the event really fun and educational.

The starter course was assorted artisanal goat cheeses from Fraga Farm which paired perfectly with our first beer of the evening, the Spring Gose, a seasonal salty-sour ale with orange accents.

The first appetizer was Chef Jeff’s cold-smoked salmon rosettes, which were so tasty that when our waitress returned offering a tray of seconds, one-by-one our entire table snatched up them all up. The salmon was served with Cascade’s 2009 The Vine, a sour beer made with white chardonnay grapes.

The second appetizer was beer-battered frog legs swimming in a savory caramel sauce. “I’ve never had frog legs before-so I jumped all over it,” (har, har) explained brewer Curtis about his choice. I was also a frog-leg newbie, but the chefs insisted they tasted like a mix of halibut and chicken, which turned out to be an accurate description. Our table joked about the Schwarzenegger-sized legs as we scarfed them down, but I’m not sure I would eat them again if they weren’t covered in crispy beer batter. These were drizzled in a caramel sauce made from the paired beer, Busta Nut Brown. This malty beer was quite different from the sours, with its coffee-like aroma and dark-mahogany color.

The entrée was served buffet style, with plenty of extra helpings to go around. The main dish was pan-seared rack of lamb from SuDan Farm, which is available at the Portland Farmers Market. Vegetarians, avert your eyes: the chef proudly confided that the lamb had been slaughtered less that 24 hours before it hit our plates in all of its glory. The lamb was served with a cherry demi-glace that matched the accompanyin beer, 2009 Cascade Kriek, a fruity beer made from two different types of cherries.

Next up was the surprise taster that turned out to be the Noyeaux, an ale aged in white port barrels with 20 pounds of raspberries and toasted apricot pits. “In my opinion, it’s the one world-class beer we’ve made,” said brewer Ron. Though I would disagree about it being the only one, it was a true standout brew.

Finally, when we didn’t think we could fit any more food or beer in our swollen bellies, we were served white chocolate cheesecake served with a stone fruit compote, which of course paired perfectly with the 2009 Apricot Ale (A-ha! Thus the abundance of apricot pits that painstakingly were removed and used in the Noyeaux).

I’m not sure I could choose my favorite Cascade beer from the dinner, as The Vine, Noyeaux, and Kriek are now all very near and dear to my heart. I definitely recommend the Beer Belly Dinners for the vast array of food, top-notch beers, and terrific company. See you at the table!

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Tags: Beer, Slideshow, Portland Chefs, Craft Beers

Festival Report

Spring Beer and Wine Festival

Lots of brews and no lines = bliss

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Photo: Dan Cronin

Who needs the sun? The Spring Beer and Wine Festival is a good excuse for indoor imbibing.

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Who needs the sun? The Spring Beer and Wine Festival is a good excuse for indoor imbibing.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

Bridgeport’s Hop Czar proved a popular pour with hop enthusiasts.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

The organic ale was flowing courtesy of Hopworks Urban Brewery.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

Souvenirs were plentiful for those wishing a memento of their drinking experience.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

Spring Reign from Ninkasi was a hit with reporter and photographer alike.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

The good people from Canby Asparagus Farm had all manner of filling foodstuffs for sale.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

Still feeling peckish? A delicious two-bite snack from the Pie Spot is good for what ails you.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

Widmer Brothers Brewing is a powerful company that’s never lost its zeal for promoting beers from aspiring brewers, thanks to the Collaborator program.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

The offerings from Gllgamesh Brewing exemplify craft beer at its craftiest.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

Ladies and gentlemen, a man who needs no introduction—Fred Eckhardt. He’s a rock star in the beer community.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

For tipplers in need of a palate cleanser, Portland’s New Deal Vodka was serving up samples.

View Slideshow » Photo: Dan Cronin

On the way out, a quick huff on the breathalyzer was useful for deciding on your method of transportation home.

No two ways about it, the annual Spring Beer and Wine Fest is a horse of a different color. It’s held indoors within the cavernous confines of the Convention Center, and instead of the bronzed brew believers milling about in sunglasses and cargo shorts that characterize summer’s Oregon Brewers Festival, there is an altogether more furtive air that pervades the spring gathering. After all, my skulking brethren and I had come to guzzle beer at noon on a Friday. I realize that this represents a stain on my permanent record. My dreams of higher office have been scrapped.

And while there are fewer brews at this event than at OBF, the lines are almost nonexistent, and that’s a major blessing for folks like myself who were born without a scintilla of patience. In fact, I’m now forbidden to stand in lines due to an unfortunate incident that I’m not at liberty discuss until a settlement can be reached with the injured parties. These are litigious times we live in.

“It’s like Costco in here—except with beer!” This observation came from my giddy photographer Dan Cronin, who was on hand to snap some Kodak moments for my blog. True that. It was free admission for the first two hours of the fest, and along with regional purveyors of beer, wine, and assorted spirits, there were abundant samples of everything from fried asparagus to Barbie-sized pies to industrial strength habañero beef jerky. A sample of the latter—dutifully cooked in an active volcano for six months before being slathered in napalm marinade—compelled me to chug three vases of daffodils from a nearby flower vendor. Too bad we didn’t get a picture.

Portland is a town sadly bereft of actual celebrities, but I did manage to chat with local notables who included Brian Butsenschoen head of the Oregon Brewers Guild; beer judge and homebrew pioneer Fred Eckhardt; Horse Brass owner Don Younger; and Portland’s ambassador of Happy Hour, Cindy Anderson, who was on hand promoting her latest guide to good drinking in PDX.

On the beer front, the power players—Widmer, Bridgeport, Full Sail, Laurelwood, Ninkasi, Lompoc, and Deschutes—were in the house with a healthy assortment of ales. Ninkasi’s Spring Reign, a clean and sturdy American pale ale with shades of citrus, caramel, and nuts, was especially memorable. Consider this a plea from me on my bended knee: may this super seasonal be promoted to Ninkasi’s regular rotation. Our parting would be sorrowful indeed.

The presence of young and hungry micro brewers served as a potent reminder that even our big beer barons came from humble roots. And if the ales proffered by the likes Astoria Brewing, Oakshire Brewery, Fort George Brewing, and Panty Dropper Ale (gotta love that name) are any indication, the spirit of competitive brewing is alive and kicking.

I’m a sucker for beers sporting offbeat ingredients and I was rewarded with a few innovative jolts. MateVeza Brewing from Ukiah, California, featured a Yerba Mate ale that set my pulse racing. Far and away the tastiest and most intriguing beer I tipped all afternoon was the Black Mamba Ale from Gilgamesh Brewing in Turner. Instead of hops, this crackling brew was made from black tea leaves. Sounds weird, but it was love at first sip, and I’m already jonesing for more. Maybe I’d better check the list of active ingredients and make sure there’s nothing in it from Columbia.

Without further ado, please enjoy our web exclusive slide show from the Spring Beer and Wine Fest. It was fun! Where were you?

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Tags: Beer, Beer Festivals, Slideshow

Out and About

Halloween Memories

Good thing I was taking pictures

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Photo: John Chandler

Me, aka the Bar Pilot, aka Pabst Man, the people’s superhero.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Me, aka the Bar Pilot, aka Pabst Man, the people’s superhero.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Calamity Jane and Pabst Man, still dangerously sober.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The Halloween party was highlighted by shakin’ tunes provided by DJ T-Sully.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

As soon as we left the party, strange citizens began to materialize. This astronaut is clearly lost in space.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

We barely escaped the luchador and the Jolly Green Giant. The big green guy tried to climb into our car!

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Our next destination: Gold Dust Meridian on SE Hawthorne.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Our waitress was the very model of efficiency. Not bad for a gal with an ice pick in her noggin.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

This guy is still trying to figure out why his audition for the Blue Man Group was a flop.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The poor fellow couldn’t persuade anyone to dance with him.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

A friendly stewardess points out the emergency exits to a flapper and a lumberjack.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Zombie boy scout and his lady fair helped us across the street.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

By this time, people were giving us a pretty wide birth.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

What the—? Pabst Man doesn’t need a sidekick!

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

A man of the cloth flirts with temptation outside the Space Room.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Ah, a Space Punch and a flame-thrower hot bloody Mary. Just in time.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Sometimes even Pabst Man needs to change things up drinkwise.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The Space Room takes a turn for the weird.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

What the hell was in that drink? Time to go home.

Halloween is my favorite holiday, hands down. Christmas and Thanksgiving are not without their charms, but both involve stressful family get-togethers with their attendant mind-numbingly tedious mealtime conversations. My brother’s gag concerning the whereabouts of the gravy boat (“I think it ran aground!”) got big laughs the first time he said it—back in 1974. Now it’s a teeth-grinding, anticipatory nightmare, like an imminent tax deadline or waiting for a physical examination conducted by Dr. Chillyhands.

And don’t get me started on Christmas shopping! The Bataan death march was a cakewalk in comparison. At least those sorry souls could look forward to a cessation of suffering and the arrival of sweet oblivion. They didn’t have to hang around after the march’s conclusion listening to relatives gripe about “the miserable haul this year” and their inevitable trip to the Target “returns” counter. “An army of sneezing brats drooling all over the place; might as well book a cruise on a plague ship,” is a popular post-Yuletide sentiment heard around our tree. This now concludes the whine portion of the blog post.

Halloween is an enthusiastic embrace of mischief, pageantry, and good-natured deviltry. We don fantasy garb and slip out under the cover of darkness to let our inner wolves sniff a few butts, eat fun-size Snickers bars till our choppers beg for mercy, and howl a bit with the rest of the pack. And with this Halloween taking place on a Saturday night, it was all just too perfect.

I was dressed as Pabst Man, the people’s superhero. I wiggled into my Pabst union suit, stuck a Pabst cap on my head, and filled my backpack with cans of PBR. I handed these out to everyone I met, intoning, “Please enjoy this complimentary beverage from Pabst Brewing. Drink responsibly.” Pabst, it should be known, is currently without a spokesman. Consider this my audition.

My friends and I went to a swinging cocktail party where we went through a bottle of Kahlua while listening to our host’s awesome collection of 45s. We then departed around 11:30 to ramble the streets and mingle with our fellow revelers. As we sauntered up SE Hawthorne, we couldn’t help but notice the abundance of zombies, witches, flappers, mummies, kitty cats, Martians, and pirates out parading in their seasonal finery. The air was thick with a Mardi Gras-like aroma of friendly intoxication, and we recklessly struck up conversations with total strangers. It was, after all, Halloween. One night of the year that we didn’t have to be our cowering, banal selves. We could be anyone behind these masks.

Is it possible I’ve been watching too much Dexter on Netflix?

Here then, is my web-exclusive slideshow from Halloween night on Hawthorne. Now it’s all coming back to me. If you feel so moved, share some fond Halloween memories with me and the drinking buddies.

Note to the general public: If you happen to find yourself as an unwilling participant in this slideshow, please contact me at jchandler@portlandmonthlymag.com and we’ll do our best to blur you out of the picture.

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Tags: Slideshow, Holiday Events

Rock the Clubs

Go-Go Garagefest

Scion event draws a crowd

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Photo: Cammie Toloui

The trick to navigating Garagefest was planning your itinerary down to the minute.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

The trick to navigating Garagefest was planning your itinerary down to the minute.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The line at Berbati’s Pan was long all day. Soon, event staff would only let a person in if someone left the club.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Live from Scion Garagefest: The Dirtbombs took the stage with two hammering drummers, adding a thunderous backbone to their rip-roaring attack.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Live from Scion Garagefest: Many of the concertgoers I spoke with proclaimed the Dirtbombs to be the best band at the fest. I would not disagree. Guitarist-singer Mick Collins absolutely scorched from beginning to end.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Perhaps taking a cue from Monotonix, one of the Dirtbombs’ drummers moved his kit down to the floor toward the end of their set.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Trying to keep the hyperactive Mick Collins in frame was no easy task.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

For some reason, Elvis was not asked to perform at Garagefest. But he took it to the streets—even in the rain.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: Kid Congo is a guitarist and bandleader who’s been a member of the Cramps, Gun Club, and the Bad Seeds. Resplendent in a cool cape, Kid Congo played a spine-tingling mix of R&B, psychedelia, and rock en espanõl.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: Cute band alert! Tennessee vixens Those Darlins displayed punk moxie, house-party chutzpah, and a tuneful approach that belied their tough-chick persona.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: The strangest thing about the Strange Boys, from Austin, was the front-and-center presence of a gal who didn’t sing but kept time tapping her umbrella.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

This is me and some guy named Ross. I told him he could be in the slideshow if he bought me a beer.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: Goodnight Loving deserved a bigger crowd than the spotty attendance at Satyricon. The Wisconsin combo’s blend of twang, fuzz, and harmony was scintillating.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Kid Congo and his drummer get up close and personal. Nice mustache!

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

I loved Canadian combo Simply Saucer’s honest, bar-band approach to psych-pop, but I was apparently in the minority. Someday Lounge was jammed for this set.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Memphis legend Jack Oblivion’s set at Dante’s was a great way to finish off the night. Rough and soulful like the Stones, a hard voice of authority like Springsteen or Warren Zevon.

An entire day devoted to fuzzed-out, three-chord 1960s-style bashing? Kind of. It became evident early on that Scion’s Garagefest was operating under a fairly spacious umbrella, from the Dirtbombs sweaty riff riot, to Goodnight Loving’s sweet, twangy trash, to Kid Congo’s Latin-fluenced sonic spook show.

Speaking of umbrellas, there was more than one occasion where a bumbershoot would have come in handy, as Saturday’s weather proved to be as unpredictable as the 40-odd bands playing at the four Burnside corridor venues. I got soaked waiting for the Dirtbombs, and re-soaked making a dash for a slice of pizza an hour or so later.

Honestly, I was a little leery of a corporate-sponsored fest. Besides hardcore punk and Scandinavian black metal, garage rock is probably the most snotty, anti-authoritarian musical idiom known to mankind. And I do have a complaint to register with Scion. The swag bags left a lot to be desired. Other than the earplugs, socks, and a little package of mints that I haven’t been able to open, everything else was car propaganda. On the plus side, the socks are quite comfy.

While the lines to get in to see big names like the Black Lips and Roky Erickson at Berbati’s Pan were ludicrously long, causing many to give up on the early side of Saturday night, the Satyricon and Someday Lounge were usually an easy fit, making the fest a golden opportunity to see some little-known acts, among whom were several pleasant surprises. Those Darlins, Goodnight Loving, and the Strange Boys all delivered memorable—and varied—sets.

Get a gander at our web-exclusive slideshow from Scion Garagefest and soak up the sights, sounds, and smells of a full day dedicated to no-frills, no-nonsense rock ‘n’ roll. Sadly, we failed to get pictures of the matronly prostitute who asked me for a date or the drunk guy from Florida that tried to bite me while I was waiting for a late-night burrito. I guess you had to be there. Note: You may notice a drop in quality from the early photos, shot by ace photographer Cammie Toloui, and those that follow, captured by my Sony digital. Still, I firmly believed I was a triple threat, just like Peter Parker: fighting crime, reporting, and snapping the pics.

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Tags: Slideshow, band, music

Reading and Drinking

Las Vegas Lit

Book release for local lass is a sizzling soiree

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Magic Gardens is the name of Viva Las Vegas’s memoirs, and it refers to the infamous Old Town strip joint of the same name.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Magic Gardens is the name of Viva Las Vegas’s memoirs, and it refers to the infamous Old Town strip joint of the same name.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Emcee Tres Shannon of Voodoo Doughnuts fame, and poet Walt Curtis, a collaborator of Gus Van Sant’s, were just two of the famous faces in this crowd.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Hey ladies! Writer and rock fan Pennie Lane (left) shares the stage with the gal of the hour, Viva Las Vegas. Lane was the subject of the Cameron Crowe film Almost Famous where she was portrayed by Kate Hudson.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

The dancer’s name is Ruby and she can usually be found working the stages at Mary’s Club and Lucky Devil Lounge.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Industrial tape artist and dancer Mona Superhero favored the crowd with some prose and poses.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

A veritable sea of fans clustered around the stage with bouquets for Ms. Las Vegas

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Burlesque legend Lucy Fur flew in from Los Angeles to make the scene and shimmy the night away.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Tylor H. Neist from the Red Sneaker Chamber Players gathers cash for the dancers, as well as discarded underthings. It’s a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Nikita the fire dancer proved to be one of the hottest acts on the bill.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Dancer Charlotte Treuse loses her legging during a provocative number.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Singer, actress, playwright, and famous femme Storm Large shares a laugh with dancer Malice, who can be seen at Sassy’s, Devil’s Point, and in the James Westby film, The Auteur.

View Slideshow » Photo: Kerosene Rose

Let’s rock! Time to put down the book and pick up the mike. Viva Las Vegas smolders on stage with her band Coco Cobra and the Killers.

Richard Meltzer (author, poet, Blue Oyster Cult songwriter): What are you doing here?

Me: I’m covering Viva’s party for the society pages.

Richard Meltzer: Hmmmph. Some society.

It was a very Portland cross-section of humanity—musicians, poets, strippers, and sundry riff-raff including myself—that crammed itself into Dante’s last Tuesday night. The occasion was the book release party for Magic Gardens, the spicy memoirs of stripper, writer, rocker, bartender, and cancer survivor Viva Las Vegas, a name that should be familiar to Portland Monthly readers for her recent entry in the pages of this very periodical. Most everyone present (except me, apparently) was dressed in old Hollywood-style finery, showing off in glittery gowns and crisply-pressed suits.

Like I said, the place was jammed and the wait for a drink tested my usual Job-like patience to the snapping point. But emcee Tres Shannon, the world’s most distinguished doughnut entrepreneur, kept up a lively stream of patter, introducing local notables like Storm Large, Pennie Lane, Courtney Taylor-Taylor, and Walt Curtis to the stage to read racy passages from Magic Gardens. There was also a performance by Viva’s ripping rock band Coco Cobra and the Killers, and a bevy of beauteous dancers, including the legendary Lucy Fur, tantalized us to distraction, which went a long way toward easing the pain from the eternal drink lines.

Take a gander at our web-exclusive slideshow of this auspicious event, shot by photographer Kerosene Rose.

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Tags: Slideshow, Night Life, viva las vegas

Drinking Locally

Space Truckin’

Hawthorne dive blasts off

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Photo: John Chandler

The formerly dingy dining area in the Space Room gets a space-age makeover.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The formerly dingy dining area in the Space Room gets a space-age makeover.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

What better way to add extra-terrestrial excitement to a room than with actual ETs?

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

This particular specimen once made an appearance on The X-Files, and was acquired via auction.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Conspiracy buffs will want to pour over these otherworldly clippings.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

We didn’t know Andy Warhol painted aliens!

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Headlines from Roswell! The saucer men have landed!

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Astronauts, aliens, and all-day breakfast: a recipe for success.

If you put a gun to my head (and you will, trust me) and demanded that I reveal my favorite local dive bars, the Space Room would be on the short list. The snuggly booths, goldfish bowl-sized drinks, and atomic-age murals work as a healing balm on my weary soul. So when I heard that a face-lift was on the horizon, I kind of freaked out.

I’ve seen too many unique and eccentric old rooms transformed into bland, corporate lounges with zero personality. Dude, I can’t drink in a sterile environment! Fortunately, new owner Seth Leavens and I are on the same page. The main bar area is pretty much unchanged: the flying saucer lamps still hover overhead, and the cosmic art remains intact. Instead, Leavens had his design team make over the adjoining Brite Spot, also known as that dumpy little diner area that no one ever sat in. Now the room is opened up and the decor matches the rest of the place. Times 10.

The revamped dining room is chock-a-block with outer space accouterments, including Warhol-style alien paintings, alarming UFO newspaper headlines, and, of course, aliens. There’s a grand opening party tonight between 6–10. Drop by, have a bloody Mary, and help christen the new, improved Space Room.

Bonus! The menu now features breakfast served all day! It seems like such a simple thing, but many bars in town seem to have missed the memo. When you go out drinking, and eventually require a greasy pile of carbs to soak up the sauce, nothing, I repeat, NOTHING works better than eggs, potatoes, toast, and bacon. Get it? Got it? Good.

Get a sneak peek at the makeover in this web-exclusive slideshow.

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Tags: Slideshow, Bar Openings

Rock the Clubs

Elvis Lives!

Dante’s throws a birthday bash

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Dantes
Photo: John Chandler

What a show! Elvis is a marquee attraction.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

What a show! Elvis is a marquee attraction.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Ed Forman hits the stage, played on by rock duo the Dynamite Brothers. Professional that he is, Forman kept his back to the audience while buttoning his trousers.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Ed Forman and city councilwoman Amanda Fritz agree that Portland’s official nickname should be “Awesomeville.”

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Elvis (John Schroder) regales Ed Forman and his producer, Jerd, with tales of his wrestling prowess.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Elvis does dead-on impressions of Darth Vader, Jabba the Hut, and Yoda.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Captain Booty Beard, the pirate troubadour, played a lengthy set of ribald sea chanteys. Yes, that’s a hook peeking out of his pants.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Power trio Search Party played a vigorous set before backing Elvis on “Jailhouse Rock.” Several people remarked on the bass player’s uncanny resemblance to Ryan Seacrest.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Metropolitan Farms fired off a brilliant set of shiny power pop.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The joint version of “Don’t Be Cruel” by Elvis and Metropolitan Farms was nothing less than stunning.

View Slideshow » Photo: Jessica Tippens

Mr. Howl covers the Chocolate Watchband classic "Are You Gonna Be There (At the Love-in)?

View Slideshow » Photo: Jessica Tippens

Elvis returns for “Heartbreak Hotel” and “Burning Love” with Mr. Howl. At some point I looked over at drummer Jane Cowan Sullivan with a dopey grin. It really felt cool and exhilarating to play those songs! For a moment, it seemed we were part of something bigger than ourselves.

View Slideshow » Photo: Jessica Tippens

And with a few personnel changes, Mr. Howl morphs into Giant Bug Village, Portland’s premier Guided By Voices tribute band. The lovely Jen Lane of BarFly fame shouts encouragement from the floor. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Happy birthday John Schroder, he who is known far and wide as Elvis.

You know the bird: local color doesn’t get more colorful than Elvis. Schroder himself is a bearded, hulking street singer, who puts his heart and soul into interpreting the works of one Elvis Presley, usually at Saturday Market or some other warm-weather, open-air location. Physically there is no resemblance, but the dauntless Schroder has been belting out the King for more than a decade, occasionally getting a group together called Elvis’s Last Band to play at clubs.

Last Tuesday was the ersatz Elvis’s birthday, and Schroder’s dear friend (and mine, too) Jen Lane of BarFly magazine threw him a hopping little soiree at Dante’s, showering him with a battery of bands, a big plate of cupcakes, and party favors (the whoopie cushion will definitely come in handy). The festivities began with Schroder as a special guest on the Ed Forman Show, a live talk show hosted by local smart-ass Ed Forman, who commands the stage every Tuesday at Dante’s. Elvis appeared right after city councilwoman Amanda Fritz (who was rocking some glamorous shoes) and proceeded to slay the crowd with his amazing repertoire of Star Wars impressions. Note to Elvis: don’t ever do Jar Jar Binks again. Please.

Your humble narrator happened to be in two of the five bands on the bill so I got some commemorative snaps from this totally off-the-hook happening. Have a look—it’s almost like being there.

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Tags: Slideshow, Holiday Events, Elvis

Drinking Locally

Stumble Zone Part Deux

Broadway Bound

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Photo: John Chandler

The Benson Hotel Lounge might be small, but it’s as swanky as a new pair of Italian shoes.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The Benson Hotel Lounge might be small, but it’s as swanky as a new pair of Italian shoes.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

A round of cocktails at the Benson helps create the illusion of genuine class and sophistication.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

If one Kickboxer is good, two must be better. Saucebox delivers.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Great minds think alike when it comes to the Kickboxer. Accept no substitutes.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

As darkness descends, the Saucebox sign lights up, revealing an elusive blinking monkey.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

At Bailey’s Taproom, a sampler tray is the recommended method of imbibing.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Easy come, easy go. With its abundance of esoteric brews and jeans-and-caps atmosphere, Bailey’s Taproom is a casual after-work option.

View Slideshow » Photo: Garrett Milojevich

The end of the road. Sorry, interior photos will earn you a speedy exit. Trust us, a good time was had by all.

Compared to our SE Hawthorne sojourn, the Broadway Stumble Zone promised to be cake. A walk in the park. A cakewalk in the park. The cat’s pajamas. It would also be mercifully short, as we were venturing only three blocks from our downtown office. After all, we had to work in the morning, and since we were going out together, no one could call in sick—unless they wanted to wear the mantle of web department wuss.

In an effort to streamline the stumble, we reduced the number of attendees from an unwieldy 14 to a very modest half dozen. Through trial and error (mostly the latter), we discovered that you cannot reasonably come tromping into a bar with more than 10 people and expect a fair shake from the waitstaff—especially with a shabby crowd like me and the drinking buddies, who look like we’d be hard pressed to scrape up a buck in nickels between us. As a concession to making a better first impression, I borrowed a (clean) shirt with a collar for the evening. Grumble, grumble.

We got out of the gates in ritzy fashion with a round at the Benson Hotel Lounge, a swank corner bar tucked into a soaring lobby the size of Safeco Field, and a sterling example of Old Portland sophistication with its stately oak and marble appointments and dozeable banquette seating. The ladies in our group opted for marionberry martinis (don’t get me started on the “what is a martini” debate, please, just this once), but I was feeling like a debonair dude and ordered a Pernod, that potent, milky, and aromatic licorice sipper favored by pretentious nitwits the world over. A couple baskets of crisp and crackly shoestring fries kept the top-shelf booze from burning holes in our guts.

All around us, well-heeled guests were buzzing in and out with bellhops bearing their trunks, valises, and other carrying cases that were in every way superior to the old gym bag that I use while traveling. We eyeballed their interactions and made up tall tales about the most striking citizens.

“She’s just murdered her third husband and now she’s looking to dally for a week or so with a starched and tailored young man who knows at least four different dance steps,” I said, pointing out an impeccably preserved middle-aged hen.

“Ooh, how about him?” Alexis motioned subtly across the room at a tan, windblown-looking fellow who appeared to be freshly decked out from a safari shopping spree at Banana Republic. “There must be some way to get them together.”

“Hmm. He’s a bit khaki, isn’t he?” Garrett offered.

“So khaki … so tacky,” murmured Jenny.

We then proceeded to make up compelling fake identities for ourselves, which I have since forgotten—save that Garrett wanted to be a lion tamer and that I was researching my latest true-crime thriller.

From the lofty heights of smart society we dropped a few rungs to Saucebox, where cubicle drones trading incomprehensible tech jargon, imperious office queen bees, and upwardly mobile slackers were ravaging gloriously hot chicken wings, happy-hour sushi rolls, and lofty drinks garnished with exotic flora.

After the strictly enforced gentility of the Benson, here was a chance to really get our beaks wet. So I pounced on a Kickboxer, one of my most cherished of local cocktails. A semilethal but innervating mix of house-made Thai chili vodka and assorted fruit juices, the Kickboxer, upon first glance, looks like a drink for amateurs, a vivid alcohol delivery system for the lush in a hurry to cast off. But that Thai chili bites deep, and its confluence of fruit and fire works wonders on the after-five psyche.

There’s a constant clamor at Saucebox that makes it hard to do much of anything aside from adding to the din with your own chatter and signaling a waiter for more of the same. A note to drinkers on a budget: the tall drinks take longer to suck down than those served “up” in martini glasses.

Here, we didn’t need to invent personas; we were much the same as everyone else present, minus the designer labels. Like the rest of the crowd, we were employed, still thanking our lucky stars for it, and almost completely bereft of leisure time. That’s why the Kickboxer comes in handy. It’s a liquid holiday that gently inflames our wage-slave senses without the need to pack a suitcase or make hotel reservations.

It was a different story across the street at Bailey’s Taproom, a landing pad for both beer snobs and the beer-curious. To pass as one of the natives here, a patron should be decisive, even in the face of two dozen or so beers you’ve never heard of. I chose the sampler, four-ounce glasses of five different brews. It’s also a handy method of determining the current state of your flavor profile, whether it’s stout, pilsner, or a malty little gem somewhere in the middle. At the moment, my heart belongs to Belgium.

“Lots of board-gamers on the premises,” Harold noted. It’s true. Bailey’s boasts a definite rumpus-room vibe, and the clientele tends toward stocky builds, unruly facial hair, and low-hanging cargo pockets. In other words, me.

And then along comes Mary’s Club, our final destination. Our party was neatly divided gender-wise, and two of the ladies were strip-club virgins, clearly nervous about confronting clothing-optional members of their own team. It was time for the ol’ coach to deliver a pep talk.

“Strippers at Mary’s look like real women,” I told them. “No added sweeteners, artificial colors, or bonus rooms. Just friendly and naked—like the good Lord intended.”

“How naked?” asked Megan the intern.

“Nothing on but the jukebox,” I returned.

The joint is family owned and run primarily by women, the daughter and granddaughters of Mary’s patriarch Roy Keller, who bought the place in 1954 and turned it topless in 1965. It was dark and cool inside and not too crowded. A redheaded stripper named Tori, whom we all promptly fell in love with and later described to co-workers as “a tattooed Botticelli pinup girl," was working the stage accompanied by Tom Waits and the Cramps. A clear throwback to slithery old-school burlesque bump and grind, Tori kept us enthralled through three rounds of Budweiser apiece and all the folding money in our wallets.

As we prepared to part company, the nudie newbies felt proud, invigorated by this ubiquitous Portland rite of passage. “I never thought I’d go to a strip club,” one of them told me. “It was actually pretty cool. I wish Tori was our friend.”

And in a nutshell, that’s the point of a Stumble Zone, venturing outside your comfort boundaries and getting a better idea of who you are, who they are, and who we are. Our little world brought that much closer together through a mutual love of cheap beer and tattooed flesh. I mean, really. Living in Portland and ignoring the strip bars is like moving to Montpelier and not being a fan of pancakes.

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Tags: Slideshow, Stumble Zone

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