14 // COASTWEEKEND.COM
Coast Weekend’s local
restaurant review
Workingman’s watering hole serves up hearty fare
Photos and Review by
MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA
MOUTH@ COASTWEEKEND.COM
T
“These are the tales of the rough
and tumble life that is Astoria’s
history and folklore,” concludes
the Portway tavern’s back-of-menu
biography. And indeed, the nearly
100-year-old saloon, just off Pier 1,
revels in a grit and grind — where
the Wild West collides with the
surly barnacles of the docks.
Located just south of the As-
toria-Megler Bridge, the Portway
was built in 1923 by Victor Jarvin-
en. Living above, Jarvinen started
serving in 1925. In 1931 he turned
the business over to Paul, his son,
who operated the pub until 1984,
and whose spirit remains today.
According to the menu,
“Portway Paul” was a “successful
professional boxer” who “ran tabs
for nearly everybody and would
always buy the house a round
whenever anyone would pay off
his tab.” Tall and unsavory tales
abound: a trap door in the fl oor,
underage drinking, a fi ght club
and, perhaps, a brothel upstairs.
Myth has it that Paul’s ghost con-
tinues to haunts the joint.
Operating today, presumably,
in greater accordance with the
law, the Portway retains its odor
as a workingman’s watering hole.
It is dark, heavy, wooden and
worn, littered with memorabilia,
particularly orange lifebuoys and,
at times, crammed full of dock
workers wearing XtraTufs. On my
fi rst visit there loads of men, all of
similar age, dress and physique.
A near total absence of women
pronounced their likeness. At one
point I counted some 22 men and
one woman — well, two counting
the bartender. She did her best
to handle the thirsty onslaught,
though the crowd drank collective-
ly faster than she could mix and
pour (and serve and buss and cash
lotto tickets).
With hardly an empty seat in
the joint, it took almost 30 minutes
before I got to order. “They got to
Above: The fi sh and chips were served on a faux newspaper.
Top left: The Deep Fried Cheese Ravioli were akin to mozzarella
sticks, but overpriced.
Bottom left: The rather small tuna melt featured chunky sweet
pickles and unmelted cheese.
THE PORTWAY
Rating:
422 W. Marine Drive,
Astoria
portway-astoria.com
503-325-2651
HOURS: 11 a.m. to 11 p.m.
Monday and Tuesday; 11
a.m. to 1 a.m. Wednesday
and Thursday; 11 a.m. to 1:30
a.m. Friday and Saturday; and
noon to 9 p.m. Sunda.
PRICE: $ – Entrées hover
around $10, up to $20 for
steaks and fi sh & chips
SERVICE: Appropriately gruff ,
knowledgeable with regulars,
at times slammed
VEGETARIAN/VEGAN OP-
TIONS: Where red meat is
king, not recommended
DRINKS: Full bar
KEY TO STAR RATING SYSTEM
get you some help,” I told the per-
petually moving bartender. “That’s
what I keep telling the boss,” she
said, mid-stride.
The kitchen was far less
burdened than the bar. My food
appeared in a fl ash. From the list
of mostly deep fried appetizers I
went with the Deep Fried Cheese
Ravioli ($7.25). I fi gured: I’d never
had deep-fried ravioli before, and
we all know poppers, mozza-
rella sticks and calamari. As the
ravioli appeared my jaw dropped:
There were but six modestly sized
squares. Essentially mozzarella
sticks in different shape, only
more dough and less cheese, they
amounted to over a dollar per
square. I was aghast — a scant,
lame ripoff. I wondered if I’d made
a mistake: that the Portway was
just a place to drink.
The side-salad presaging my
burger began to dispel that notion.
After the crummy ravioli I expect-
ed a bowl of lifeless iceberg lettuce
and maybe an out-of-season to-
mato. I was happily proven wrong
with a robust mix of spring greens.
The Bacon Bleu Cheese Burger
($11) came open faced, the grilled
onions, mushrooms and bacon
charred, twinkling, sparkling with
shiny grease. My arteries quivered,
but my god, when I chomped down
on the hulking thing I felt like the
bypass would be worth it. It was
a drippy, salty, gooey, delicious
mess. The bacon was thick with
crunch, the onions sweetly cara-
melized, the mushrooms earthy,
all with the pang of blue cheese.
It was an excellent, hand-formed,
old-school bar burger. The Port-
way’s hard-working clientele, I
surmised, wouldn’t suffer any-
thing less.
Under that hypothesis, I fi gured
that no one ever ordered the Tuna
Melt ($8.25), because it — like
the raviolis — was pitifully
puny. The whole slice of toasted
sourdough was not much bigger
than a half sandwich. Worse was
the cheese — it wasn’t melted at
all. It was, rather, sweaty. Though
the essence of the sandwich died
there, the chunky, sweet pickles
were a questionable inclusion.
By this time the crowd had
thinned considerably. I’d arrived
at 8 p.m., fi nding the only empty
table in the place. By 9 p.m., there
were but a few remaining strag-
gles. When the karaoke jockey
fi nished setting up and started to
sing (the Portway offers karaoke
Wednesday through Saturday) she
hadn’t much of an audience, and
no takers stepped up to the mic.
I returned on a Friday after-
noon around 4 p.m. and was
served promptly. I had the Fish
& Chips ($18.75), which were
served on a faux newspaper, a
corny historical nod I enjoyed.
While spendy and not impres-
sively sized — somewhat similar
to chicken wings and drumsticks
— the four pieces of beer-bat-
tered halibut were outstanding.
The whitefi sh — moist, clean and
lean — was encased in a crust that
was paper thin, salty and golden
brown. Tuna Melt notwithstand-
ing, I again guessed — or, rather,
hoped — that, even if it weren’t
sourced daily off the docks, guys
who worked in close proximity
Poor
Below average
Good
Excellent
Best in region
to fi sh wouldn’t tolerate inferior
product.
But then, while we’re guess-
ing, I fi gured the Portway was a
place where folks were as likely
to order red meat as anything.
So I tried the Steak Sandwich
($12.75). The 7-ounce New York
strip almost seemed larger, over
an inch thick and poking out the
ends of the hoagie roll. Though
more medium than medium-rare,
it was juicy and mostly free of
gristle. The grilled mushrooms
and onions weren’t charred like
on the burger, but the onions were
still sweetly caramelized. Here
was a big, simple, beefy sandwich
that worked. It felt right at home.
I could imagine Portway Paul
chomping down on one — after a
fi ght, a late-night game of cards,
or another grueling shift.