Once again, they’ve scrubbed the carpet, opened some windows and doubled down on the wood-paneled rumpus room vibe.
Old Portland still mourns the loss of Club 21, and its wake is held nightly at Sandy Hut.
Why aren’t all of life’s pleasures this simple?
It’s a white-painted, French-Colonial hall of gilded mirrors and painted naked ladies.
Prolific serial tavern robbers arrested.
The bar is a replica of its former self that never quite existed in anyone’s memory.
(And one chicken sandwich!)
His go-to records, his craziest gig and the music you should never ask him to play.
Portland will likely soon have a bar on Southeast Grand Avenue devoted to that great American sweat factory and rock and roll icon, the King himself.