BY MATT ROWNING
7 p.m . is an auspicious time. It’s the twilight hour where
the boredom of the day culminates into the night’s plans.
At that hour I jumped into a white coffin of a ’95 Chevy
pickup and belted in the center seat. To my left was my
photographer and designated driver, and to my right a
man I’ve never met before. We pulled away to the sound
of Dick Dale hammering on the radio.
It seemed too pure a greeting for what was coming.
The impossible task ahead was finding the best beer in
Oregon City, and the best place to drink it. I imagined
this same truck rolling sideways down I-205 at 90 miles
an hour.
“ Three dead m en were found on the freeway this
morning after a horrifying night of liver punishment
and depravity. The sm all effem inate one w earing a
floral hat appears to have suffered the most terrifying
death o f the three.”
Better not say anything, I thought. No need to lay a
bad omen on the whole enterprise. I adjusted my hat
nervously.
The first stop was Coin Toss Brewing on Beavercreek
Road, next to the bottle exchange. Its name didn’ t stem
from the nickel a bottle you get next door at the bottle
return, though. The legend of Lovejoy and Pettygrove’ s
coin toss for the name of Portland is the real namesake.
Proprietor and brewer Tim Hohl said, “ Our name is sort
of an homage to the history and the heritage.”
They have 12 taps: eight house brews, two guest taps
and two ciders. We ordered the flight of eight for $8.
These were fine brews. Complex, beer-drinker’s brews.
On the whole, they were hoppy and aromatic, though
the Honest Ale and the H alf-Penny Lager were corny
and sweet.
Hohl was also our host. He walked us through the
history, the conception of, and the processes o f his
brewery. A hom e brewer for 20 years, H ohl said, “ I
was never gonna be the guy who turned a hobby into
a business.” He and his wife did warm up to the idea.
“ My wife and I always wanted to open a small business,
be in control of our destiny,” said Hohl.
Howl walked us through his brewery and explained
the brewing process.
After, we stumbled out a thank you and left. Back into
the White Coffin’ s front seat.
The next stop was OC Brewing Company, downtown.
Enter the brew pub. This place is serious. I couldn’ t
count all the taps. We shared our press credential and
got two flights of beer samples for free.
Delicious, delicious beer. M y favorite here was the
8-B it Blonde, a sweet, light ale that tasted more like
honey than beer. There was a red, Brigid’ s Irish Red, it
put to shame every red ale I’ve ever had. This beer lacked
the pungent aftertaste of the imperial red, instead, it
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had a clean finish and a lighter body.
The staff was helpful; the LCD television screens were
crystal orbuculums o f beer. Stare into their prophetic
sheen, and you see every beer on tap, how much beer
in left in the keg, the ABV and so on.
It was neat. Still, I felt a certain guilt about it. What the
hell is up with television screens and beautiful outdoor
seating areas? I’ve always been a proponent of gross shit.
This is downtown Oregon City. Isn’t this supposed to
be the dive bar capital of Clackamas County? The last
bastion o f working class folk, running from Portland’ s
gentrifying viscera into the final fortresses o f their
culture?
It was time for a dive bar. Abandoned was any pretense
of finding good beer. Now it was about the crawl.
Immediately next door to the OC Brew Pub is Coney
Island. Inside are two pool tables, five video lottery
machines and more o f Old Portland than Gus Van Sant
would know what to do with.
Dark lights. Glasses clink. Music plays. This is more
like it.
I ordered a PBR for $2.25. A guitarist sang in a lyric
baritone as a Drunk Man screamed the high notes, all
out of his range. More of a texture and less of a harmony,
Drunk M an’s rusty nail-gargled voice added some joy
to the sound, if nothing else.
Drunk Man turned to us. “ There are only two things
you can come back to man. Two plus two equals four,
and musical scales.”
I understood him . This was Cartesian philosophy at
its most simple. Cogito Ergo Sum shit.
The lecture turned dark. “These ain’t ice cubes! They’re
melting! They’re like, what’s happening right now God!”
Laughter seized Drunk M an. He toasted us w ith
his glass of ice. He stood, grabbed his backpack, and
retreated out to wherever angels make their rest.
“ Life is so fucking beautiful,” he choked out with a
sm ile, and we saw him no more.
This was the salt of the earth. Portland’s retreating
working class confined to this pasture of a suburb and
left this last drinking trough. In sharp contrast with
OC Brew Pub, Coney Island felt like real culture, not a
carefully cultivated one.
It’ s a unique culture, a dive bar. It’ s comical to the
upper class and disdained by the virtuous right. Coney
Island may as well be Elliott Sm ith’s last heroin needle or
Wipers’ last show at the Satyricon: old Portland. As wet,
disgusting, loving and incredible as the cesspool that is.
I was not yet done with this quest. Our fellowship
had one mission left, and our toughest yet: the quasi
corporate, fam ily friendly granddaddy o f Portland
microbreweries: McMenamins.
Inebriated. Over the line. I was about to go there and
so much more. I ordered a pint of Ruby, McMenamins’
fine wheat ale with raspberry puree. We sat until late
night happy hour, swearing and causing a ruckus. The
third m an in our party was swearing and waving his
arms, but what to do?
Hey, if I get kicked out of here maybe I won’ t have to
pay for this beer. Let him scream.
Out of that overly-fabricated hellhole. Road. Car. We
crammed back into the White Coffin. The photographer
drove us back to Clackamas as I played surf songs all
the way home.
We were really just that: surfers, catching a big brown
wave o f ale and lager, and riding it all the way home.