May 2014 | view this story as a .pdf

By Olivia Gunn

It’s 11:30 p.m. on Monday and my boyfriend has the overwhelming urge to play pool. There must be days when every man needs to feign Paul Newman. “All right, hustler, let’s go.” Old Port Tavern Billiards sits on the corner of Fore Street and Market just across from Bull Feeney’s. We pass through the crowd of USM students, whom I assume don’t have class the next morning or simply don’t care. The live band blasting from the upstairs lounge at Feeney’s, backed by Old Port Tavern’s ’70s-mix, makes for an interesting rendition of “I Got You Babe.” There’s just one of six tables left, and it’s conveniently centered in the room. The ratio of men to women is three to one. These lucky ladies were either dragged into boy’s night or finishing off a first date. They can be identified by a giddy smile or bored iPhone stare. I notice one group of guys seems to have followed a friend on said first date and show no shame in their “ball” and “pocket” jokes. He blushes at their catcalls and playful insults as his date smiles and secretly wishes they’d gone to her place after dinner. Two games later it’s closing time, and since it’s Monday night, since I left my yoga pants behind for jeans, TOMS, and a sweater, we’re off to find the nearest slice of pizza.

“Hey, kid, we got three slices.” The 23-year-old tool nudges his way through the rest of us waiting in line. We’re all relieved he got his much needed, well-deserved slice before those of us who’ve been in line for 10 minutes. It’s one in the morning, everybody has been drinking, everybody has to drive home, everybody needs a slice, and the teen behind the counter hustles, trying to keep up with orders. Bill’s is a solid retreat to grab food at the end of a long night. Open until 2 a.m., the place appeals to anyone and everyone. Sitting in a booth amid it all, that’s very obvious: “Yo’, Will, yo’, Jeff, yo’, Greg” rings out as more and more bro’s file in. My friend is rudely pushed out of their way, so we decide to give up and split the slice we have. It’s delicious, but at this time of night anything is.

“What’s she drinking?” “Something that’s not on the menu.” Specialty cocktails are the latest trend in Old Port, or so I’m learning here at Portland Hunt and Alpine Club. The place is brightly lit, chic, and fun. A bar wraps around the front window, tables line up in the middle, and an intimate nook for couples is enclosed with a curtain. A thin, stylish woman with cropped hair sips her no-name wonder from a champagne glass while nibbling popcorn. I order the Witch’s Kiss, a tequila drink–I’m sorry, Agave, an Agave drink–and enjoy the low murmurs of the couples nearby. It’s the perfect spot if you’re not looking to run into friends or coworkers. Everyone keeps to her/himself, thoroughly enjoying every last drop of her/his delicious choice. The bartenders work magic, measuring each concoction to perfection. Cocktails are an art here at Portland Hunt and Alpine Club, and I dissuade myself from enjoying another masterpiece.

We arrive at Mayo Street Arts with no real expectations, to play it safe. I’d heard of Crowbait Club through a friend and thought I’d give the monthly play competition a go. Walking into the already packed space, we are certainly strangers in a room full of hysterical “club members.” One group stands in the corner shouting across to another group, who shouts to another group, who shouts to the group behind us, and so on. The setup is rather confusing as we pass by a table with cans labeled “WOMEN” and “MEN.” Oh, no. My friend glares at me. I swear to her it’s nothing kinky, but we take two seats with an easy exit. Beer and wine are passed through a small kitchen window, and those who aren’t adding their name to the cans or “playwright” list file in and sit. Soon a man takes center stage and quiets the crowd, yet is continuously interrupted by shouts and “That’s what she said” from the back. This is a group of close-knit theater fans, none of whom are working on the next Les Mis but look forward to this night with friends, beer, and dialogue. Tonight is Bad Play Night and the writers have gone above and beyond to write their worst. Raunchy is an understatement as the F-word bounces off the walls and the crowd “ughs” and “ewws.” After the first act we cast our votes, I for a particularly strange play set in a hotel with surfing sharks. My guest is obviously ready to move on as she breaks away for a smoke. I follow her out, nodding my unacknowledged thank you. Outside, another smoker suggests we stay and act, confessing she’s never acted before either but thinks it’s fun. Maybe for some, but I’ll pass, promising to return next month when the plays aren’t so bad.

After being unreasonably honked at while crossing the “cross-walk” at Commercial and Union (expected on a Thursday past 8 p.m.), I make my way into In’Finiti, eyes peeled for my friend. The place is wide with an industrial feel. Giant, copper distilleries shine behind the counter, justification for the minimalist bar of 20 or so local/micro brews. Spotting her, I take a seat and am greeted by Chloe, the new bartender from Seattle. “What’s your go-to beer?” She points out the Cannonball XPA, an American Pale Ale for five bucks. “I’ll take it.” My friend orders the cheese platter and is happy to see a new brie. She’s obviously a regular. It’s a quiet place, no music, no TVs. The bar is by no means packed, but singles and couples are placed strategically away from one another, yet close enough to overhear a good topic. “Sangillo’s?” The woman two seats down whips around, hearing my friend, Rachel, describe local dive-bars. “Oh, my God. You’ve got to go to Sangillo’s.” It’s a common occurrence with whomever you meet in a Portland bar that they just can’t help but tell you where you should be drinking. The stranger–Alicia–the bartender Chloe, and Rachel all rave over Sangillo’s one-dollar Jell-O shots, and our present drinks, a perfect Pale Ale and Rachel’s Sorta Toddy–tequila-based specialty cocktail with a lavender Dolin Blanc (vermouth), cinnamon, and lemon–are eclipsed by cherry-flavored gelatin and well vodka. “You get a shot there and it’s like ‘Hello, Dixie cup,’” the three cackle in camaraderie as I pay my tab and realize exactly where I’ll be headed come midnight Friday.

I head up State Street, taking in the particularly flirty swagger of the city this evening. The night is warm, a jumpstart for summer, and the streets are buzzing with those of us who can’t sit still long enough to watch another episode of Orange is the New Black. The reggae band, Royal Hammer, is playing at Local 188, and it simply just fits the evening. When entering Local, I’m always a bit reserved, fixing my poise and checking any eagerness at the door. There’s a coolness about Local, and each time, I can’t help noticing the cliques. Tonight it’s no different. Groups of attractive twenty/thirty-somethings lounge on the puffy sofas, reminiscent of Friends, and are quick to turn their heads and watch who dare enter the doors of Hipstertopia. Luckily, with my slouchy hat and a wave to nobody in particular at the bar, I pass inspection. Making my way through the maze of tables, I spot a seat where I proceed to wait…and wait…and, “’Scuse me? Can I get a menu?” By this point my stomach is growling and the scene is closing in on me: beards, flannels, and mom jeans. After indulging in the Spicy Margarita and Garlic Shrimp, I see my friend arrive and we make our way over to the main bar, ordering another drink. By 11 p.m. the band has been playing for an hour, the crowd is tipsy, thus friendlier, and we’ve made several new acquaintances. The space in front of the band is packed, and it’s good to see couples, friends, and strangers grooving together unconsciously, unceremoniously welcoming spring. Local 188, while not always presenting the warmest welcome, wishes me sweet, sweet dreams tonight.

Sonny’s is near empty, and of those who are here, 10 of them are men, 40 plus. One in particular can’t help but lean in closer and closer, hoping desperately for us to acknowledge him. Finally he asks, “How do you two know each other,” making sure we are, in fact, two separate entities. I have the urge to tell him we’re dating, but you can never trust that a guy like him will back off with that line. Luckily, it’s Thursday and there’s a live band, so we really invest ourselves in the singer, Jake Roche, and ignore Don Draper. Sonny’s is everyone’s favorite bar. I watch as each newcomer is welcomed by name and knows at least one other person seated. It’s past 10 p.m. and the bar seems to be getting a steady flow. Soon our first friend is replaced by a younger gentleman who listens as we discuss where to go. He moves in close, unsuccessfully shielding his wedding ring, and suggests we all go to Sangillo’s with him for, you guessed it, Jell-O shots. We smile along and entertain this thought for less than a minute before Roche distracts us all with his rendition of “Friend of the Devil.” Sitting here with my Spicy Pineapple Margarita and The Grateful Dead playing behind me, I’m content and feeling very much a part of the Old Port.

This is our first stop for the night, and it sets the mood perfectly. Taco Escobarr is my spot when I’m not sure whether I’m hungry or just thirsty. They’ve got a stacked menu and liquor shelf, so I’m never disappointed. The space is lit by tiny chili pepper lights, green, yellow, red, that cover the entire ceiling and give everyone a warm, sultry look. We take two stools at the end of the bar, and I order my margarita with salt, guac and chips, and a bloody Mary for my guy.  It’s not long before we make friends with the couple close by. The girl is drinking a Mayan Ruins, the spiciest cocktail I’ve ever sipped, and she laughs as we order one ourselves. Devin is a student at one of the local colleges and tells me she’s been coming here for the past two years, explaining it’s gone from “sucking” to “great.” I ask why she stayed loyal during the bad times. “It was convenient, and they make good infused drinks,” she laughs, and I get a sense there’s more to that story. After draining our Mayan Ruin (one is enough), we pay our perfectly fair tab and head down Congress.

The place is packed, as usual. Blue, being the designated jazz bar of Portland, tends to attract music buffs, wannabe music buffs, and, at times, your run-of-the-mill music snob, all of whom you can differentiate with a glance around the room (the buffs delight in talking to you about a band you’ve heard of, the snobs in talking to you about a band you haven’t heard of ). But tonight is to be a good night for Blue, a good night for couples who can groove to any Sam Cooke while knowing a bit of Sinatra on the side. We squeeze ourselves into a space between a couple from CA campaigning cross-country and the bar. My friend Colleen serves our drinks, suggesting the Bantam cider. She tells us we’re going to love the band, The Evan King Group, and by the looks of front-woman Ms. King, I already do. She’s ultra-’40s femme with vixen red hair and a fitting black dress. She and her band seduce us with Al Green and Jill Scott. King plays with the audience, encouraging us to sing along, and we do, to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On,” as Tim, the bar’s regular volunteer musician, keeps the tempo on tambourine. With my man’s arms around me as we watch a soulful couple swing around, Blue hits the perfect note tonight. We stay until the very last song, Ella Fitzgerald’s “Make Love to You,” and head home humming the lyrics: “I can tell by the way you walk that walk…” The Evan King Group plays every first Friday at Blue, so you can find me there on June 6.

Seafood dinners with the parents by day, loudest bar with the longest line by night. This, my friends, is Bull Feeney’s. The scent of seafood and too many college dudes in one space can be overwhelming on a weekend, but never judge a bar by its stink. It just shows character. The band tonight is the Dapper Gents, a popular group in Portland that draws a good crowd. I show up early to avoid any potential line, order a Coke, and wait for the band. They are scheduled to start at 9:30, but by the sounds of it (check, check), I won’t be hearing anything until 10. I chat up the bartenders, check bits of the Sox game, and people watch until I hear, “HEY…HO.” I carry my stuff to the neighboring room and take a corner to observe. The song is by the popular band The Lumineers, and the Dapper Gents are doing just fine with their own version. I watch as more and more girls flutter up to the stage, twirling in their carefully chosen, tiny Urban Outfitters’ dresses. It’s maybe 50 degrees, but these dolls are ready for summer and even more ready to get the front-man’s number. Eventually a couple shimmies up, pulling their burly, Sperry-shoed friend along. They move to Sublime’s “What I Got,” and I can’t help but miss my freshman year of college. A young couple must notice my nostalgia; the girl invites me to sit with them. I decline but ask if they’re dating. The guy, Eric, grins, “Not yet.” His date, Erin, blushes. They’re from Auburn and never miss the chance to visit Bull Feeney’s. “It’s my absolute favorite spot,” Erin confesses. “I mean, sometimes I go to Amigo’s to pregame, but I can’t come to the Old Port and not come here.” I see Eric is ready for one-on-one time with Erin, so I leave them and head out before the crowd gets too big. Had I been with a group of friends, I absolutely would have stayed to dance the night away, playing 19 with the rest of the 25-year-olds.

After flashing our new Maine licenses to the unenthused security, my boyfriend and I push past what I like to refer as the “Gritty’s loiterers,” the patrons who stand in the middle of the doorways and cast irritated glares as you are forced to nudge your way through. I suggest keeping your eyes forward and ignoring the catty insults from the 35-year-old decked in Forever 21. There’s always a live band, and when we arrive around 9:30 they’re just setting up. Agreeing it’s too nice to be upstairs sweating, we head down to the basement, where another more intimate bar awaits. The bartender pours my Hornitos, and when asked to explain the difference between the Plata and Reposado he offers a short history on barrel-aged tequilas vs. steel-fermented tequilas, and a sample of both. Impressed, I leave a decent tip. We notice our friends outside and join them, crowding around a small table of mixed drinks and packs of smokes. This is the perfect spot for our starter drink, and we take note of which direction the crowds are headed tonight.

Ri Ra is like that guy you desperately fell for junior year but couldn’t get past his flirting and over-partying. I love the idea of Ri Ra. They always have a live band playing great covers, a giant bar, and plenty of floor space. The problem? Everyone else loves the idea of Ri Ra, too. I enter the bar and immediately feel overwhelmed. The place is full to capacity, and my ears aren’t quick enough to adjust to the volume level bursting out of the speakers. How couples are dancing is beyond me. All I can tell is, the song involves drums and a guitar. What the other band members and singer are doing is unclear. I try to squeeze past a group of men who’ve volunteered as the body inspectors for the evening. Maybe it’s the timing, maybe it’s the crowd, but I can’t seem to shake the bad feeling. I wait to order a drink I know I won’t see for another 10 minutes, and before I know it, my group decides to split. Ri Ra was too much of a good thing tonight, and I’m ready for something a little simpler.

Sitting here, listening to roots musicians Adela and Jude, it’s hard to imagine that half an hour ago I was fighting my way through a swarm of middle-aged singles for a beer at Ri Ra. It’s a relaxing night at Andy’s, and though we’re too late to order food, our server, Rick Marsh, offers us samples of his smoked almonds and pistachios. Andy’s is calming and warm, a good break from the louder bars in Old Port. If you’re looking for a spot to actually hear the musicians and your companions, Andy’s is your best bet. Rick points to the free popcorn in the back, but we’re all set. Andy’s has given us the re-boot we needed before taking on the last two hours of our Saturday night.

In Silver House Tavern, the entire bar bursts into the chorus of “What’s Up,” the ’90s one-hit-wonder by 4 Non Blondes and the biggest hit of tonight’s karaoke. It might be the booze singing, but every single one of us thinks we’re in tune as we continue to belt, some of us even doubling over with emotion, the lines “Hey-yeah-yeah-yeah, Hey-yeah-yeah…” It’s that single moment we’ve all been waiting for. That moment you’ve worked for all week when you forget the money you just blew on Absolut shots, share a phantom microphone with a stranger, and convince yourself you’ve just met your soul mate. This song has just inspired a battle of one-ups, and we all rush for the song binder to make our selections. “What about Gold Digger?” “I can’t read that fast.” As we push and shove, spilling a drink on the pool table, a leather-skirted chick struts up to the mic and dares to take on “Black Velvet,” the only song you’ve seen your mother polish off an entire glass of red to. She takes charge of the room and we all quiet; she needs no backup or lyrics. The song ends, the room sobers for a moment, and my dreams of wowing them with “Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys” are dashed. All right, the point of karaoke is to sing badly. Deep down we know we can’t sing; that’s why we came to Silver House, where everybody sounds like Adele.

There’s barely enough room to move, but when the song is right, we all sync up. There’s an hour left to the night, and no one is shy. It’s all or nothing at this point, so both girls and guys are taking the leap and asking for a dance. Old Port Tavern has turned from the first place we send a tourist to a pheromone-drenched nightclub where everyone is hoping to leave with someone. It’s here where hipster and bro find even ground because, quite frankly, they don’t notice one another. We’re all much too busy getting busy, and as the DJ starts “Blurred Lines,” the only person you’re focused on is the one you’re dancing with. Though the twenties have taken the dance floor, there’s an older crew lingering around the bar and we’re lucky enough to catch the attention of a woman who offers to order our beers. “Have fun,” she shouts and passes us two bottles. The dance floor is a different world, with green laser lights cutting through the thick air. “Happy Birthday, Alexis, this one’s for you,” the DJ shouts over the speakers. Alexis and her friends cheer, and it’s on to the next song. Thirty minutes later we’re exhausted, unable to keep up with the rest. It’s time for us to go, but it’s certain Old Port Tavern will be going strong until the very last minute.

My head is spinning while trying to read the list of beers above the bar. With 25 taps and over 500 bottled beers, Novare Res is no place for the Coors fan. I try to play it cool and order the first beer I can pronounce, “High and Mighty Two Headed Beast.” Oh, God, what have I done? The waitress smiles, knowing I’m lost. Here folks know their beers or have at least experimented enough to make educated guesses. A person like me is simply confused. Having never been able to turn down any beer that’s handed to me, I’m no snob. With long picnic tables inviting groups to mingle with others, it’s a great opportunity to ask someone what they’re drinking and why without feeling like a creep. I mean that’s why we’re here, right? We all love beer. The place is a bit dungeon-like for my taste, but there’s a small room in the back with a fireplace and big, comfy chairs. I’m sold. Now and only now do I wish it were still January. Next time, though, I hope to be drinking my fancy-schmancy draught on the deck with sunshine and friends.

Having no guest, I hand my extra ticket over to the box office at Merrill Auditorium before waiting in line at concessions. “Tonight is a special night,” I’m told, and I’m allowed to take my Allagash White into the concert hall. A very friendly woman leads me to my seat, and I’m shocked to see how full the space is. I wasn’t expecting this large audience but am happy I’m not alone. Bobby McFerrin is playing tonight, a promise that summer is really nearly here. Though he’s a 10-time Grammy winner, I unknowingly assume I’ll be hearing “Don’t Worry Be Happy,” which I’m more excited for than you’d think. As I look over the line-up, I realize I’m in for something quite different. McFerrin and his band will be playing well-known Americana. The crowd is familiar with most of the songs, and when three audience members are invited on stage, five show up. We’re all proud when these Portlanders impress Mr. McFerrin with their voices. I think he’s even a bit surprised. One singer in particular, a young man named Chaz, makes his way to the stage a second time and the two scat back and forth. The show brings Portland to its feet, and at the end of a long week, Merrill Auditorium provides me with an enlightening cultural event. This summer we can look forward to classic acts like Jackson Browne and Gordon Lightfoot.