The Willamette Week Bar
We already make half* our revenue from events sponsored by beer and liquor companies, so why not go all the way? Welcome to Deadline! Casey and Nick book the bands in the conference room, Aaron runs karaoke night and poetry readings in the lobby, Ruth tends bar at the receptionist's desk and Nigel sits in the corner booth mumbling obscenities at politicians. House cocktails include the Lusty Governor (Goldschlager, Absolut Raspberri vodka, Qream). Deadline—where we tell you the news.
*Maybe? They don't tell me these things.
An intentionally dusty tavern dedicated to preserving the living memory of Old Portland, the largely imagined paradise that existed before moneyed developer interests bulldozed our historic railyards and brownfields to build condos for the gays—back when tattoos were for sailors and the bikes rode on the goddamn sidewalk. The bar, which is made from a salvaged slab of Harbor Drive, serves only Weinhard's and HRD vodka. The bartender is a Frank Ivancie impersonator dressed in buckskin, and an animatronic Ramblin' Rod performs nightly.
No, not the baby-heavy restaurant on Southeast Division Street. This Sunshine Tavern specializes in, well, sunshine—half the bar looks like your usual concrete-and-barnwood Portland pub, but the back room has been converted at great expense into a faux patio, complete with AstroTurf, picnic tables, thriving houseplants and enough full-spectrum bulbs to provide a reasonable facsimile of a July afternoon. Sunglasses are provided.
If you love dirt and heavy metals, I have the place for you. Portland's hottest club is Eeuuhh. Located in an abandoned, Cold War-era bunker at Kelly Butte, this Trotskyist tavern is the creation of kinky sex clown Dick the Varmint. This place has everything: Puggles with facial tattoos, 19th-century English orphans, stripper baristas, Occupiers in the bathroom and human furniture. It's that thing where unemployed Reed graduates are paid in ketamine and pop-philosophy zines to balance tabletops on their heads.