At the origin of Sandy Boulevard, a tiny microcosm of Portland’s beverage scene hums on the weekend. The street slices through the Buckman neighborhood until it hits Couch, and on either side, bars lure patrons in with a very specific niche — union shills peruse the library bookshelves of the Worker’s Tap, Guinness in hand; twentysomethings in expensive sneakers wait outside Jackie’s for their spot within. Farther west, My Father’s Place remains a watering hole for the old-school Portlanders seeking shots and beers with their liver and onions. Up north, the lush back patio at Rontoms becomes a rowdy rock venue during its Sunday sessions.
Portland’s bars are as
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