Daddy Mojoâs (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 diveâs menu of crawfish, meatloaf and sushi. All available wall space at Mojoâs is mounted with flat-screen TVs sporting basketball and footballâthat is, when itâs not taken up with framed and autographed photos of retired Belgian tennis star Kim Clijsters; the owner is a fan. Heâs also a sushi chef, but nonetheless held onto the soul-Cajun recipes heâd bought from the barâs founder, which range from jambalaya to racks of ribs. Meanwhile, a sawbuck at happy hour will net you a massive spicy-catfish maki roll thatâs a lot tastier than youâd expect in a bar with $2.25 domestic beer and a $3.50 cheeseburger and fries. Still, the menu can be haggled with. âSix days,â 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 Iâd like to buy.