If it had an Alberta address, the Wishing Well would long ago have been co-opted by Portland’s cool kids. But stashed away in St. Johns, this lo-fi shithole (we mean that as a term of endearment) is preserved as a pristine example of where old drunks go to die. A weird vaulted ceiling hovers protectively over the Wishing Well’s 70-year-old grandmother of a bartender as she juggles drink orders and jukebox malfunctions at the pace of, well, a 70-year-old grandmother. Granny has no patience for fancy beer, so tap choices are Bud and Coors Light, which might be limiting but at just $2 a pint leave little room for complaint. Besides, order anything but American piss-lager (once again, we mean this warmly) in front of prison story-trading Wishing Well regulars and you’re asking for a shanking.
Perfect Patron: Haggard senior in faded sweatpants who’s spending the Social Security check on sidecars and watching the local TV news through Transitions lenses. (ES)
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