{"id":9704,"date":"2014-04-25T13:04:30","date_gmt":"2014-04-25T17:04:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/?p=9704"},"modified":"2014-04-25T13:04:30","modified_gmt":"2014-04-25T17:04:30","slug":"portland-after-dark-7-nights-in-the-city","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/portland-after-dark-7-nights-in-the-city\/","title":{"rendered":"Portland After Dark: 7 Nights in the City"},"content":{"rendered":"

May 2014 | view this story as a .pdf<\/a><\/p>\n

By Olivia Gunn<\/p>\n

\"7-nights-in-the-city-may14\"<\/a>It\u2019s 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. \u201cAll right, hustler, let\u2019s go.\u201d Old Port Tavern Billiards<\/strong> sits on the corner of Fore Street and Market just across from Bull Feeney\u2019s. We pass through the crowd of USM students, whom I assume don\u2019t have class the next morning or simply don\u2019t care. The live band blasting from the upstairs lounge at Feeney\u2019s, backed by Old Port Tavern\u2019s \u201970s-mix, makes for an interesting rendition of \u201cI Got You Babe.\u201d There\u2019s just one of six tables left, and it\u2019s conveniently centered in the room. The ratio of men to women is three to one. These lucky ladies were either dragged into boy\u2019s 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 \u201cball\u201d and \u201cpocket\u201d jokes. He blushes at their catcalls and playful insults as his date smiles and secretly wishes they\u2019d gone to her place after dinner. Two games later it\u2019s closing time, and since it\u2019s Monday night, since I left my yoga pants behind for jeans, TOMS, and a sweater, we\u2019re off to find the nearest slice of pizza.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, kid, we got three<\/em> slices.\u201d The 23-year-old tool nudges his way through the rest of us waiting in line. We\u2019re all relieved he got his much needed, well-deserved slice before those of us who\u2019ve been in line for 10 minutes. It\u2019s 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\u2019s<\/strong> 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\u2019s very obvious: \u201cYo\u2019, Will, yo\u2019, Jeff, yo\u2019, Greg\u201d rings out as more and more bro\u2019s file in. My friend is rudely pushed out of their way, so we decide to give up and split the slice we have. It\u2019s delicious, but at this time of night anything is.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s she drinking?\u201d \u201cSomething that\u2019s not on the menu.\u201d Specialty cocktails are the latest trend in Old Port, or so I\u2019m learning here at Portland Hunt and Alpine Club<\/strong>. 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\u2019s Kiss, a tequila drink\u2013I\u2019m sorry, Agave, an Agave drink\u2013and enjoy the low murmurs of the couples nearby. It\u2019s the perfect spot if you\u2019re 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.<\/p>\n

We arrive at Mayo Street Arts<\/strong> with no real expectations, to play it safe. I\u2019d heard of Crowbait Club through a friend and thought I\u2019d give the monthly play competition a go. Walking into the already packed space, we are certainly strangers in a room full of hysterical \u201cclub members.\u201d 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 \u201cWOMEN\u201d and \u201cMEN.\u201d Oh, no. My friend glares at me. I swear to her it\u2019s 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\u2019t adding their name to the cans or \u201cplaywright\u201d list file in and sit. Soon a man takes center stage and quiets the crowd, yet is continuously interrupted by shouts and \u201cThat\u2019s what she said\u201d from the back. This is a group of close-knit theater fans, none of whom are working on the next Les Mis<\/em> 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 \u201cughs\u201d and \u201cewws.\u201d 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\u2019s never acted before either but thinks it\u2019s fun. Maybe for some, but I\u2019ll pass, promising to return next month when the plays aren\u2019t so bad.<\/p>\n

After being unreasonably honked at while crossing the \u201ccross-walk\u201d at Commercial and Union (expected on a Thursday past 8 p.m.), I make my way into In\u2019Finiti<\/strong>, 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. \u201cWhat\u2019s your go-to beer?\u201d She points out the Cannonball XPA, an American Pale Ale for five bucks. \u201cI\u2019ll take it.\u201d My friend orders the cheese platter and is happy to see a new brie. She\u2019s obviously a regular. It\u2019s 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. \u201cSangillo\u2019s?\u201d The woman two seats down whips around, hearing my friend, Rachel, describe local dive-bars. \u201cOh, my God. You\u2019ve got to go to Sangillo\u2019s.\u201d It\u2019s a common occurrence with whomever you meet in a Portland bar that they just can\u2019t help but tell you where you should be drinking. The stranger\u2013Alicia\u2013the bartender Chloe, and Rachel all rave over Sangillo\u2019s one-dollar Jell-O shots, and our present drinks, a perfect Pale Ale and Rachel\u2019s Sorta Toddy\u2013tequila-based specialty cocktail with a lavender Dolin Blanc (vermouth), cinnamon, and lemon\u2013are eclipsed by cherry-flavored gelatin and well vodka. \u201cYou get a shot there and it\u2019s like \u2018Hello<\/em>, Dixie cup,\u2019\u201d the three cackle in camaraderie as I pay my tab and realize exactly where I\u2019ll be headed come midnight Friday.<\/p>\n

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\u2019t sit still long enough to watch another episode of Orange is the New Black<\/em>. The reggae band, Royal Hammer, is playing at Local 188<\/strong>, and it simply just fits the evening. When entering Local, I\u2019m always a bit reserved, fixing my poise and checking any eagerness at the door. There\u2019s a coolness about Local, and each time, I can\u2019t help noticing the cliques. Tonight it\u2019s no different. Groups of attractive twenty\/thirty-somethings lounge on the puffy sofas, reminiscent of Friends<\/em>, 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\u2026and wait\u2026and, \u201c\u2019Scuse me? Can I get a menu?\u201d 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\u2019ve made several new acquaintances. The space in front of the band is packed, and it\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

Sonny\u2019s <\/strong>is near empty, and of those who are here, 10 of them are men, 40 plus. One in particular can\u2019t help but lean in closer and closer, hoping desperately for us to acknowledge him. Finally he asks, \u201cHow do you two know each other,\u201d making sure we are, in fact, two separate entities. I have the urge to tell him we\u2019re dating, but you can never trust that a guy like him will back off with that line. Luckily, it\u2019s Thursday and there\u2019s a live band, so we really invest ourselves in the singer, Jake Roche, and ignore Don Draper. Sonny\u2019s is everyone\u2019s favorite bar. I watch as each newcomer is welcomed by name and knows at least one other person seated. It\u2019s 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\u2019s 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 \u201cFriend of the Devil.\u201d Sitting here with my Spicy Pineapple Margarita and The Grateful Dead playing behind me, I\u2019m content and feeling very much a part of the Old Port.<\/p>\n

This is our first stop for the night, and it sets the mood perfectly. Taco Escobarr<\/strong> is my spot when I\u2019m not sure whether I\u2019m hungry or just thirsty. They\u2019ve got a stacked menu and liquor shelf, so I\u2019m 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.\u00a0 It\u2019s not long before we make friends with the couple close by. The girl is drinking a Mayan Ruins, the spiciest cocktail I\u2019ve ever sipped, and she laughs as we order one ourselves. Devin is a student at one of the local colleges and tells me she\u2019s been coming here for the past two years, explaining it\u2019s gone from \u201csucking\u201d to \u201cgreat.\u201d I ask why she stayed loyal during the bad times. \u201cIt was convenient, and they make good infused drinks,\u201d she laughs, and I get a sense there\u2019s more to that story. After draining our Mayan Ruin (one is enough), we pay our perfectly fair tab and head down Congress.<\/p>\n

The place is packed, as usual. Blue<\/strong>, 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\u2019ve heard of, the snobs in talking to you about a band you haven\u2019t 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\u2019re going to love the band, The Evan King Group, and by the looks of front-woman Ms. King, I already do. She\u2019s ultra-\u201940s 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\u2019s \u201cWhat\u2019s Going On,\u201d as Tim, the bar\u2019s regular volunteer musician, keeps the tempo on tambourine. With my man\u2019s 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\u2019s \u201cMake Love to You,\u201d and head home humming the lyrics: \u201cI can tell by the way you walk that walk\u2026\u201d The Evan King Group plays every first Friday at Blue, so you can find me there on June 6.<\/p>\n

Seafood dinners with the parents by day, loudest bar with the longest line by night. This, my friends, is Bull Feeney\u2019s<\/strong>. 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<\/em>), I won\u2019t be hearing anything until 10. I chat up the bartenders, check bits of the Sox game, and people watch until I hear, \u201cHEY\u2026HO.\u201d 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\u2019 dresses. It\u2019s maybe 50 degrees, but these dolls are ready for summer and even more ready to get the front-man\u2019s number. Eventually a couple shimmies up, pulling their burly, Sperry-shoed friend along. They move to Sublime\u2019s \u201cWhat I Got,\u201d and I can\u2019t 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\u2019re dating. The guy, Eric, grins, \u201cNot yet.\u201d His date, Erin, blushes. They\u2019re from Auburn and never miss the chance to visit Bull Feeney\u2019s. \u201cIt\u2019s my absolute favorite spot,\u201d Erin confesses. \u201cI mean, sometimes I go to Amigo\u2019s to pregame, but I can\u2019t come to the Old Port and not come here.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n

After flashing our new Maine licenses to the unenthused security, my boyfriend and I push past what I like to refer as the \u201cGritty\u2019s<\/strong> loiterers,\u201d 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\u2019s always a live band, and when we arrive around 9:30 they\u2019re just setting up. Agreeing it\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

Ri Ra <\/strong>is like that guy you desperately fell for junior year but couldn\u2019t 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\u2019t 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\u2019ve volunteered as the body inspectors for the evening. Maybe it\u2019s the timing, maybe it\u2019s the crowd, but I can\u2019t seem to shake the bad feeling. I wait to order a drink I know I won\u2019t 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\u2019m ready for something a little simpler.<\/p>\n

Sitting here, listening to roots musicians Adela and Jude, it\u2019s 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\u2019s a relaxing night at Andy\u2019s<\/strong>, and though we\u2019re too late to order food, our server, Rick Marsh, offers us samples of his smoked almonds and pistachios. Andy\u2019s is calming and warm, a good break from the louder bars in Old Port. If you\u2019re looking for a spot to actually hear the musicians and your companions, Andy\u2019s is your best bet. Rick points to the free popcorn in the back, but we\u2019re all set. Andy\u2019s has given us the re-boot we needed before taking on the last two hours of our Saturday night.<\/p>\n

In Silver House Tavern,<\/strong> the entire bar bursts into the chorus of \u201cWhat\u2019s Up,\u201d the \u201990s one-hit-wonder by 4 Non Blondes and the biggest hit of tonight\u2019s karaoke. It might be the booze singing, but every single one of us thinks we\u2019re in tune as we continue to belt, some of us even doubling over with emotion, the lines \u201cHey-yeah-yeah-yeah, Hey-yeah-yeah\u2026\u201d It\u2019s that single moment we\u2019ve all been waiting for. That moment you\u2019ve 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\u2019ve 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. \u201cWhat about Gold Digger?\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t read that fast.\u201d 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 \u201cBlack Velvet,\u201d the only song you\u2019ve 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 \u201cMammas, Don\u2019t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys\u201d are dashed. All right, the point of karaoke is to sing badly. Deep down we know we can\u2019t sing; that\u2019s why we came to Silver House, where everybody sounds like Adele.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s barely enough room to move, but when the song is right, we all sync up. There\u2019s an hour left to the night, and no one is shy. It\u2019s all or nothing at this point, so both girls and guys are taking the leap and asking for a dance. Old Port Tavern<\/strong> has turned from the first place we send a tourist to a pheromone-drenched nightclub where everyone is hoping to leave with someone. It\u2019s here where hipster and bro find even ground because, quite frankly, they don\u2019t notice one another. We\u2019re all much too busy getting busy, and as the DJ starts \u201cBlurred Lines,\u201d the only person you\u2019re focused on is the one you\u2019re dancing with. Though the twenties have taken the dance floor, there\u2019s an older crew lingering around the bar and we\u2019re lucky enough to catch the attention of a woman who offers to order our beers. \u201cHave fun,\u201d she shouts and passes us two bottles. The dance floor is a different world, with green laser lights cutting through the thick air. \u201cHappy Birthday, Alexis, this one\u2019s for you,\u201d the DJ shouts over the speakers. Alexis and her friends cheer, and it\u2019s on to the next song. Thirty minutes later we\u2019re exhausted, unable to keep up with the rest. It\u2019s time for us to go, but it\u2019s certain Old Port Tavern will be going strong until the very last minute.<\/p>\n

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<\/strong> is no place for the Coors fan. I try to play it cool and order the first beer I can pronounce, \u201cHigh and Mighty Two Headed Beast.\u201d Oh, God, what have I done? The waitress smiles, knowing I\u2019m 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\u2019s handed to me, I\u2019m no snob. With long picnic tables inviting groups to mingle with others, it\u2019s a great opportunity to ask someone what they\u2019re drinking and why without feeling like a creep. I mean that\u2019s why we\u2019re here, right? We all love beer. The place is a bit dungeon-like for my taste, but there\u2019s a small room in the back with a fireplace and big, comfy chairs. I\u2019m 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.<\/p>\n

Having no guest, I hand my extra ticket over to the box office at Merrill Auditorium <\/strong>before waiting in line at concessions. \u201cTonight is a special night,\u201d I\u2019m told, and I\u2019m allowed to take my Allagash White into the concert hall. A very friendly woman leads me to my seat, and I\u2019m shocked to see how full the space is. I wasn\u2019t expecting this large audience but am happy I\u2019m not alone. Bobby McFerrin is playing tonight, a promise that summer is really nearly here. Though he\u2019s a 10-time Grammy winner, I unknowingly assume I\u2019ll be hearing \u201cDon\u2019t Worry Be Happy,\u201d which I\u2019m more excited for than you\u2019d think. As I look over the line-up, I realize I\u2019m 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\u2019re all proud when these Portlanders impress Mr. McFerrin with their voices. I think he\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

<\/h3>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

May 2014
\nHead downtown for drinks, dinner, dancing, music, and maybe a few surprises.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":9707,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[82],"class_list":["post-9704","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured","tag-may-2014"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9704","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9704"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9704\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9730,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9704\/revisions\/9730"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/9707"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9704"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9704"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9704"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}