A machine named “Shake Gyllenhaal” goes to town behind the bar shaking up a proper gin fizz.
It was brunch time and a cartoon unicorn was dabbing in my face.
They say fate is a fickle mistress.
Portland is in the midst of a pizza renaissance, or a glut, depending how you look at it.
Tucked in a corner above the bar at Nightingale, a little skeleton figure sits on a spinning disco ball.