Daddy Mojo’s (1501 NE Fremont St., 282-0956) is the closest Portland will ever get to a Detroit bar. At least, this is what an enthusiastic Motor City friend tells me while touting the sports dive’s menu of crawfish, meatloaf and sushi. All available wall space at Mojo’s is mounted with flat-screen TVs sporting basketball and football—that is, when it’s not taken up with framed and autographed photos of retired Belgian tennis star Kim Clijsters; the owner is a fan. He’s also a sushi chef, but nonetheless held onto the soul-Cajun recipes he’d bought from the bar’s founder, which range from jambalaya to racks of ribs. Meanwhile, a sawbuck at happy hour will net you a massive spicy-catfish maki roll that’s a lot tastier than you’d expect in a bar with $2.25 domestic beer and a $3.50 cheeseburger and fries. Still, the menu can be haggled with. “Six days,” says the bartender, Noriko, to one of the longtime regulars. In six days, on Super Bowl Sunday, she planned to make him off-menu prime rib and lobster. Perhaps it was a consolation prize; he keeps losing sports bets to her. Later, one of the other regulars tells me about the Super Bowl where Terry Bradshaw played through a concussion. If this is what bars are like in Detroit, I have a $500 house I’d like to buy.