{"id":9784,"date":"2014-06-20T08:16:40","date_gmt":"2014-06-20T12:16:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/?p=9784"},"modified":"2014-06-20T08:16:40","modified_gmt":"2014-06-20T12:16:40","slug":"lets-take-this-outside","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/lets-take-this-outside\/","title":{"rendered":"Let’s Take This Outside"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

Portland after dark.<\/h3>\n

By Olivia Gunn<\/p>\n

\"Portland-After-Dark\"<\/a>FRIDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m walking down Congress, taking in the excitement of a sunny First Friday Art Walk. My destination? Aucocisco Galleries on Exchange Street to see Denis Boudreau\u2019s opening reception of his work, \u201cVision.\u201d The city hums the melody of my happy tune and I\u2019m feeling like Dorothy, off to see the wizard with hundreds of munchkins (MECA students in this case) sending me off with bouquets. Following the yellow brick road, I pass by many Portland artisans selling their finely crafted earrings, necklaces, beaded bracelets. I zone in on the accessories, but there is<\/em> art. A lot of beautiful art. In fact, Art Walk attracts artists of all ages: an artist who\u2019s been painting so long that his hands have become his greatest works, young artists who\u2019ve put a creative use to Grandma\u2019s old tchotchkes, even art-school child prodigies testing the retail waters with their first masterpieces. I see one young entrepreneur among the finger paints\u2013a good old-fashioned lemonade stand. Way to go\u2013capitalizing on cuteness and a town full of Buy Locals. A man begrudgingly hands the young\u2019un cash for a Solo cup of what could very well be Minute Maid, mumbling about Maine taxes and inflation. Farther down Congress Street, I come across a young man dressed as a zombie; a magician wowing a crowd of young families; street dancers; bikers; and then, of course, someone has to do it, a man with a giant boa constrictor. Ugh, why<\/em>? I cross the street before having to get a closer look because I can\u2019t avert my eyes. First Friday Art Walk: the good, the bad, and the scaly!<\/p>\n

The music echoes through Exchange Street, making it hard to find where it\u2019s actually coming from until I reach the Thirsty Pig, where Tigerman Woah, a band of gritty, self-proclaimed \u201c\u2026pinkocommie red<\/em>necks,\u201d is playing covers like I\u2019ve never heard them played before\u2013on banjo, drums, guitar, and a stand-up bass. I\u2019m up for anything tonight, so I enter, passing two giant hotdogs who I come to find out are the bar owner, Allison, and a friend dancing in wiener costumes. I ask the bartender why. \u201cWe sell lots of sausages. Want one?\u201d<\/p>\n

I order the classic hotdog with slaw and a Shipyard. Past the bar is an open deck lit by a layer of string lights and a lot more people. With the door wide open, the deck is more a part of the bar than most. People move in and out freely, choosing seats at the iron tables or inside at a booth. I wait for my meal and listen as a group of guys discusses Maine\u2019s beer. \u201cThis area has some of the greatest beers in the world.\u201d He clinks his glass with friends. Everyone should be proud of their local brews, even if it could possibly be a drunken overstatement.<\/p>\n

My hotdog arrives and the band takes time before their second set. I notice I\u2019m not the only loner at the bar. The Thirsty Pig seems like one of the few spots in town that gets a steady flow of newcomers, and tonight the anonymity of the crowd makes me feel welcome.<\/p>\n

SATURDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

Connect Four, Beer Pong with soccer balls, and giant Jenga. This is an adult\u2019s playground. Tonight, Oasis has opened its veranda and nobody wants to be left out. The band, Sparks the Rescue, is treating the 20\/30-something crowd to all of our favorites from the Gin Blossoms to Tom Petty. If these guys are feeling nervous at all, they should see the crowd gathering behind them on Wharf Street. Everyone is rather lax, standing against the wall with a drink and a smoke. That is, until a bachelorette party bursts through the door, bras, heels, and hair flying. \u201cWe wanna dance,\u201d screams a short brunette, drunkenly balancing on her stilts of heels. Oh, dear. You can only imagine the toys they\u2019ve brought along, smacking one another\u2019s rears and nearly taking over the stage. The girls are having a blast and causing no harm until one crashes down in front of me while trying to seduce the wooden post separating her from the stage. We help her up, keeping her steady. \u201cMore shots,\u201d another girl yells, and they all file in, the rest of us knowing what the outcome will be when they try to walk the cobblestones a little later. Oasis is in the perfect location for anyone wanting to hop the bars and clubs on Wharf Street. As we leave, we pass recent college grads performing an interpretive dance as a bouncer looks on; a daughter and her parents\u2013the dad quite intrigued by the bachelorettes; and a couple named Barbara and Bob looking entirely out of place in evening wear. It\u2019s obvious the night is only growing stranger, so we leave while we\u2019re ahead and hope the soon-to-be-bride makes it home before the wedding bells ring.<\/p>\n

Six o\u2019clock\u2019s spaghetti dinner has long been forgotten. It\u2019s midnight and I\u2019m starving. Benkay on Congress? Eh, I don\u2019t think I can deal with Backstreet Boys throwbacks tonight, so Boda it is. In my excitement I walk right past the \u201cWait to be Seated\u201d sign, only to walk back, embarrassed at my overzealous pad Thai craving. The server laughs and grants me the honor of picking our table\u2013a spot beside the bar, in front of the window so we can watch Portland pass by. We agree on the Thai wings for a starter, two orders of pad Thai, and one Kee Mao (drunken noodles), which arrive before we even figure out our drinks.<\/p>\n

A few patrons sit at the bar, discussing the weekend\u2019s events with the bartender as he pours the last of the rounds. The lights are low, inviting a spark between a pair at the bar. Longfellow Square is bustling with young couples huddled close, headed home for the night. \u201cLast call,\u201d we\u2019re informed. Our guest can\u2019t finish his old fashioned, too strong. We decide to split it, and I, with my first sip, admit defeat. Soon the tables are cleared and we bid the drink farewell as it\u2019s swept up and away with the rest. Our appetites addressed, it\u2019s time to walk home, take in air, and each secretly thank the bartender for calling it a night.<\/p>\n

SUNDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWith ya in a minute, hon.\u201d We\u2019re seated in the back corner, as all of the J\u2019s Oyster loyalists are in their reserved spots at the bar. It\u2019s packed, and most appear to have been here since lunch, trying to leave for the past five hours but stopped at the door by a friend again and again. We bypass the specials and go straight for the baker\u2019s dozen, plus crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms\u00a0 and two Shipyards, naturally. My boyfriend, Fil, has his camera and snaps some candids. The waitress spots him and proceeds to tell us Steve Harvey\u2019s film crew stopped by earlier that day as part of a lobster-roll competition. \u201cWe\u2019re gonna be on TV.\u201d<\/p>\n

With all the attention J\u2019s gets from visitors and folks who\u2019ve seen it via Anthony Bourdain\u2019s No Reservations, <\/em>I came expecting burly lobstermen treating their hardened sea wives to date night, but instead see families, friends, and a snazzy couple, he in a sport coat and fedora, she in a beautiful sun hat circa the days of Dynasty<\/em> and Dallas<\/em>. \u201cWe just wanted to dress up,\u201d he informs Fil, who asks to take their portraits. We introduce ourselves, and the woman takes my hand after I comment on how openly loving they are. \u201cWe\u2019ve been together 28 years,\u201d she says, and bats her lashes. The man looks to Fil: \u201cTwenty-eight years of love and tolerance.\u201d On that advice, we leave hand-in-hand, hoping we\u2019d just seen our own aged reflection.<\/p>\n

You probably won\u2019t find the \u201creal\u201d Maine at J\u2019s Oyster. It isn\u2019t a tangible thing you can see, eat, or touch. It\u2019s a feeling. Just as you would have at any bar in any city that\u2019s seen one couple through 28 years.<\/p>\n

MONDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

The readings start at 9 p.m., so I arrive at LFK for Word Portland around 8:30, hoping to get a seat at the bar. Word Portland\u2013selected writers reading from their work\u2013takes place once a month at LFK. The place is busy with what seems like friends and fans of tonight\u2019s readers.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes that taste good?\u201d a guy asks, referring to the chewing of my wallet as I decide on a drink. Gross, nervous habit, I know.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, not particularly.\u201d His girlfriend laughs and we discuss Jonathan Woodman, local craftsman of said wallet. Eventually, it gets awkward as any discussion inspired by a leather wallet will and they slip away as I take a seat. The drink special is the Wrong Way: Maine Mead Works, rum ration, and a sprig of rosemary. One bartender in particular catches my attention with his booming, at times startling, voice. \u201cYou taken care of?\u201d I nod, hoping his shift ends before I order again. A young woman approaches the counter and announces, \u201cI\u2019m on painkillers.\u201d He nods. \u201cI\u2019m on painkillers, so could you make it look like a cocktail so nobody harasses me for not drinking?\u201d It seems as if he\u2019s ignored this request, but I watch as he concocts a faux<\/em>-tail and hands it over. Another girl asks if I\u2019ll watch her purse if she leaves, and I agree. She returns and I figure she owes me a quote.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you been here before?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Last time, though, I was too drunk to notice, so this time I decided to sober up and pay attention. They\u2019re usually really good.\u201d Her name is Catharine. At first she is hesitant, in case her folks read this in print. We spur off a few alias options: Barb, Vicki, Tina, before deciding she can\u2019t be the only Catharine in the Portland area.<\/p>\n

At nine, the readings start and I\u2019m reminded of the Greenwich Village bar scenes I\u2019ve seen so often on album covers and old posters. With a rubbing of F. Scott Fitzgerald\u2019s gravestone mounted high overhead, the writers stand before a room of peers and bare their hearts. What I thought could be uncomfortable proves inspiring, making me feel a slight cowardice as I hide behind glossy covers and a byline. The readings end at 10 and the crowd thins. I\u2019m left alone, staring at a vintage typewriter. When contemplation has done its worst, I\u2019m comforted by the looming Longfellow monument just outside, guardian of Portland writers.<\/p>\n

TUESDAY\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

The two-story bar is empty and feels more like a corporate office than a \u201cChinese bistro\u201d with black leather cushions and dark hardwood everything else. I climb up to Zen\u2019s bar and order Harpoon\u2019s new UFO Big Squeeze Shandy. \u201cThis is very new. It has very good flavor,\u201d says the bartender in a thick Eastern European accent. I order the wonton soup just to keep busy. A family upstairs laughs and carries on, making me wonder if the upstairs is part of the same place.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re from Portland?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Well, no. I moved here from New York.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, I love New York. But only to visit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, so does everyone else.\u201d Being the only guest downstairs, I\u2019m treated almost too well and when the napkin I\u2019m given reveals a blob of chewed gum hidden in the folds, I\u2019m too embarrassed to complain. The soup arrives, and the server is happier to see me than my mom ever is. It must get boring in that kitchen. The bartender and I begin a conversation about Portland, work, and family. Most of his is still in Turkey. He asks if I have any family near there. I smile, having thought my Norwegian heritage was more obvious. \u201cNo, but my boyfriend is Azerbaijani, but from Russia.\u201d This makes him smile, so I go on, \u201cand I love the food.\u201d He laughs and tells me of his favorite dishes. Ah, Portland. Here I am, sitting in a Chinese bistro talking Russian cuisine with a Turkish man. Maybe we\u2019re both a little homesick, but before I leave it\u2019s agreed that Portland is where it\u2019s at.<\/p>\n

WEDNESDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

Sangria, you say? I\u2019m there. I\u2019ve passed The North Point several times heading to work, shopping, and exploring, and each time I\u2019ve said, \u201cLook, they have little chairs outside. Look, it reminds me of a caf\u00e9 in Europe. Look, it\u2019s so cute.\u201d Well, I finally stop looking and step inside, this time because a giant sign promises Sangria<\/em>. It\u2019s the middle of happy hour, around six, and I feel like I\u2019m starring in a Godard film\u2013beautiful lighting, beautiful cast, beautiful location. The tables outside are taken, so I take a corner seat at the bar. I\u2019m greeted by Zach and asked if it\u2019s my first time.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, it is,\u201d I say in my best Brigitte Bardot. The lone woman beside me has caught on and snatches Zach\u2019s attention. \u201cThese aren\u2019t wasabi peas,\u201d she says of the courtesy snacks. \u201cShake these up, Zach. They\u2019re not<\/em> wasabi.\u201d Does she own the place, I wonder. No, but she certainly owns that spot at the bar. \u201cYou\u2019re hiding in the corner,\u201d she points out. \u201cJust observing.\u201d And with that she orders another fancy wine in French from my co-star, Zach. The sangria arrives, piled with fruit, ice, and whatever feel-good juice. Jazz is playing softly, and the regulars watch as I get lost in the paintings hung on the walls.<\/p>\n

\u201cSome of these people look like they\u2019re fourteen.\u201d I smile politely at the woman, who has by this point succeeded in stealing my spotlight. Regardless, The North Point is one of those rare bars that takes you from your troubles rather than drowning them. You\u2019re transported to Paris or Lisbon or Rome with one sip and a smile from Zach. Finishing my sangria, I realize the lone woman was simply playing Ingrid Bergman and I\u2019ve trespassed into her Casablanca<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Whew. My nostrils burn walking through the haze of buffalo sauce. Here\u2019s one way to cure congestion this season\u2013Trivia\/Wing Night at Brian Boru. Thankfully, the door leading to the deck is wide open, allowing for some circulation of the tear gas. My friend Shannen and I lean against the back bar, having arrived too late to play trivia. A giant screen hangs over the banister, presenting each question. \u201cName all of the characters of the popular show Gossip Girl<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shannen starts, \u201cBlair, Serena, Jenny\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think you\u2019re supposed to shout them out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgina, Lily\u2013\u201d The team in front of us glares back, but Shannen continues, catching the attention of a lone player. He approaches.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I pretty much won this game.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI win every time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou win every trivia at Brian Boru?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Pretty much.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shannen makes a face. We try to block the guy out, but he proceeds, boldly stating what no man has stated before because it simply isn\u2019t true: \u201cYou look like Jodie Foster. Not now. When she was young.\u201d<\/p>\n

Though Shannen is umm\u2026flattered, we head downstairs where she orders a whiskey and I a Coke, which at Boru is always on the house. Trivia ends, and some of the upstairs crowd move to the deck overlooking Rivalries. It\u2019s spacious and has bench seating that wraps around. When local bands play upstairs, it\u2019s the perfect spot to get away from the crowd and noise while still taking part or even dancing.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s watching us,\u201d says Shannen as we\u2019re seated downstairs. Lo and behold, our admirer lurks behind one of the columns. Code Red creeper, my friends, but in a bar like Boru, if I truly felt uncomfortable or threatened it would be taken care of fairly quickly as neither the bartenders nor bouncers have much patience for it. Shannen finishes her first, and what was supposed to be a quick drink after dinner turns into a round or two as more and more regulars pass through. I wrap up my evening with a glass of red wine, which, yes, they carry. It\u2019s not the best, but no one claimed it would be. A man, as far from a creeper as one could be, asks if I mind if he sits beside me. I pull the stool out for him, and we review the weather. He is French, pronounces my name with flair, and tells me after his drink he will need a cab home. The bartender makes the call. Just then my own ride arrives, and I wish the gentleman home safely with a hug.<\/p>\n

THURSDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re supposed to be networking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are?\u201d Looking around the giant warehouse, I\u2019m doubting anyone else got that memo. This month\u2019s Green Drinks event is at Portland Yacht Services for SailMaine. Apparently, I\u2019m here due to my vigorous interest in the environment and \u201csustainability issues,\u201d though I just sent a text that read, \u201cHey, come to this beer thing.\u201d Several local breweries are set up, and for $5 you can drink until the beer is gone. By the looks of it, everyone is planning exactly that. I run into several friends, none of whom are business owners or environmentalists. In fact, one of my girlfriends has just described using half a can of hair spray for a sleeker look. \u201cThe beer over there has ten percent.\u201d<\/p>\n

I look to see the longest line stretching across the garage. The crowd is a real mix; a lot of people have substituted their usual happy hour for a different scene, even if it is in this empty garage across town. I like that about Portlanders\u2013always up for something new and local, so long as it involves beer. Groups of friends stand in line for the Rising Tide IPA, fill their mason jars, and move to the next line, hoping to reach the tap before their glass is empty. I get in line for the bathroom, which after an hour of drinking beer is now longer than any line for beer. A woman climbs the steps above us and pulls out a megaphone. She informs everyone that the beer is gone and thanks us for coming to support SailMaine. Just like that the place is empty and the food truck waiting outside is bombarded with tipsy customers, no one really caring whether the truck is serving tacos, hotdogs, or taco-dogs.<\/p>\n

FRIDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

It\u2019s the warmest night we\u2019ve had, and there\u2019s absolutely no excuse to be eating inside. Unless the smell of ocean and port life sicken you? Yeah, I didn\u2019t think so. I\u2019m in the mood for a burger, and there\u2019s no better spot than the Porthole Restaurant & Pub. We take a seat on the back deck, though the old-school-diner look inside is tempting. We ask if there\u2019s smoking even while sitting next to a sign clearly forbidding it. You never know; sometimes you get lucky. \u201cWe don\u2019t, it\u2019s against the law, but if you wanna smoke I\u2019d go to Amigos.\u201d Our server brings our drinks, and my boyfriend and I order loaded Porthole Burgers. Bacon, cheese, avocado, the works. This is our date night. Forget the candles, wine, and silver. Bring on the beer, beef, and fries. We ask for more napkins as the ketchup and mustard smears are getting us nowhere on the romance spectrum, but it\u2019s really just one of those nights and when you\u2019re eating on the water, anything can be dreamy. Seagulls, whose call is often mistaken for one of agony, tonight recall \u201cKiss the Girl\u201d from The Little Mermaid,<\/em> and I\u2019m charmed by their swoops and subtle plots to steal my meal. Other couples giggle around us, and even some of the seasoned couples are playing \u201cfirst date.\u201d The Porthole is a spot that may not grab a tourist\u2019s attention immediately, nestled on Custom House Wharf with no flashy lights or catchy motto, but it\u2019s got personality, and nothing gets a girl like a great personality. This burger has just won me over, and my oxytocin levels must be a little high because I\u2019m ready to sit here and cuddle the Porthole all night.<\/p>\n

SATURDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

We\u2019ve walked all the way from State Street, and seeing Silly\u2019s in the distance on Washington Avenue, I pray it isn\u2019t a mirage. There\u2019s no server outside, so we take a seat at the bar for food. \u201cHow big is the burrito?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBig.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow big?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s pretty big.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m pretty hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n

The waitress steps back, eyeing me up and down. \u201cIt\u2019ll fill ya up.\u201d<\/p>\n

I finally have a minute to look around and realize what a strange little world we\u2019ve just entered. Silly\u2019s is colorful, eccentric, and goofy. (Writing this, I vow not to describe Silly\u2019s as silly.) It reminds me very much of my Great-Grandma Dot\u2019s house. All that\u2019s missing is a stair lift and a baby grand, but I wouldn\u2019t put it past them now that I\u2019ve mentioned it. Trinkets and beaded lamps crowd the shelves and counters, and as we wait for our meals, we\u2019re busied by worn Trivial Pursuit cards. \u201cWhich Little Pig of The Three Little Pigs <\/em>played the flute in the 1932 Disney animation?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe one that used straw.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow did you know that?\u201d The burrito doesn\u2019t quite satisfy, but why go to Silly\u2019s for Mexican in the first place? You don\u2019t. What I know now is that you go to Silly\u2019s for the liveliness and The Elvis Shake, a peanut butter and banana milkshake that will make you weep at the last slurp. We finish up and take our drinks out to the deck that gets the perfect amount of sun and overlooks a yard that will be packed shortly. Though we\u2019re technically only a few miles from our West End apartment, it feels like we joined Pee Wee on his big adventure and wound up here. All we need now is \u201cTequila\u201d to start playing and we\u2019ll all be on the bar.<\/p>\n

There it sits. Nestled under the neighboring building\u2019s abandoned deck. \u201cIt has outside seating?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, no. I don\u2019t know what that is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Since I started my after-dark exploits, Sangillo\u2019s has been something of a Narnia. A mystic fortress where beast and man are one, happy hour is eternal, and Jell-O shots are a buck-fifty. My friend Meaghan and I approach slowly from across the street, she snapping epic shots of the Sangillo\u2019s sign, an emblazoned insignia offering us, weary photog and writer, a refuge from reality. Meaghan snaps a photo of the vintage cigarette dispenser as a man buys another pack of Reds. \u201cYou dropped a dollar,\u201d we inform him. He turns, revealing a haggard grin. \u201cI\u2019ll be droppin\u2019 plenty more if you stick around.\u201d<\/p>\n

Wow. We mosey on up to the bar, ignoring the minor detail of us sticking out like sore thumbs.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe really wasn\u2019t joking,\u201d Mishell, the bartender, tells us. She rocks a beautiful mohawk, and it\u2019s very clear she takes no crap from these boys. We tell her our reason for visiting, that we hear the Jell-O shots have inspired many a Mainah. They say just one has the power of 10 from the opposing kingdom, Pearl, on Fore Street.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019ll it be? Red, green, orange?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, uh, what\u2019s in them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRed is rum. Green is tequila\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTequila.\u201d Meaghan hands over the bounty, and we make the trade. Mishell offers the emerald shots ceremoniously as the onlookers (the entire bar of six) watch. I thank the gods before swiping my finger around the cup and slurping down the\u2013<\/p>\n

\u201cHoly smokes. That\u2019s a Jell-O shot<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mishell and the others laugh as my eyes cross and nose twitches. Meaghan finishes hers, and I must say, the bar is rather impressed by the two of us. \u201cWhere are you from?\u201d I ask one of the women sitting close.<\/p>\n

\u201cKansas City.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow, what are you here for?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Jell-O shots.\u201d<\/p>\n

We say our goodbyes and are off. Out of the magic wardrobe, back to the Old Port.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Summerguide 2014
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