• In this 1950s landmark room, you can still tuck into a kidney-shaped bar, soak in a Rat Pack vibe, and sip an "Elizabeth Taylor" cocktail, all champagne shimmer and violet hues. What's new is the embrace of modernity, as local distillers, artisan bitters, fresh-buzzed honeycomb, and, of course, rooftop herbs work their way into graceful drinks at the intersection of Hollywood and Portlandia.     

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  • At this up-and-comer, you can gather round the campfire, literally -- a floor-to-ceiling smokestack fireplace sits in the dining room, steps away from a bar that glows like an ember. Grab a seat anywhere, commission a  "Bartender's Whimsey" and watch the parade of surprises unfold -- one night's haul included a rhubarb rickey, a whiskey sour awash in homemade walnut liqueur, and an I-can't-suck-it-down-fast-enough blend of rums and ricotta ice cream churned across the street. 

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  • Cocktails rumbling with fruit, flowers and Basque cider are as much a draw as the rustic-modern tapas and squid-ink paellas at this neighborhood hot spot. The complex, vanilla-rich sangria wipes out a lifetime of fruit-bomb crimes, and Sunday brunch delivers a worthy counterpunch to a Vietnamese iced coffee -- espresso, brandy, condensed milk and a thwack of sweet-bitter Hungarian liqueur.   

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  • In a hotel dining room that winks at Oregon's lumber days and Portland's bike culture, a nighthawk bar dispenses cocktails on tap as well as suave sips twinkling with culinary intrigue. This is where a Manhattan meets hickory-smoked vermouth, rum and Scotch say hello to mulled pinot noir syrup, and local gin finds new meaning with radish gastrique (a nod to chef Vitaly Paley's Iron Chef America triumph, a radish fight to the finish). 

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  • Only a misanthrope wouldn't love landscaped cocktails more colorful than a Hawaiian shirt convention and flaming like Dante's Peak in a psychedelic bamboo hut with hourly "tropical rainstorms." For all the kitsch, the staff is serious about its purposes, layering nuance, small-batch syrups, fresh fruit, and geeky rums into a kind of whimsical Polynesian barchitecture. 

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  • Yes, there is no cocktail menu, just old-fashioned conversation -- conversation! -- between you and the classic-loving bartenders, with your dream drink crafted to order. In this super-cute space, everything is carefully detailed, the hand-painted floral wallpaper, the boudin blanc sided by the kitchen's grape-musk mustard, the Sidecar balanced like a Hemingway sentence. 

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  • In this house of Stalin kitsch and Russian snacking, the vodka flows like the mighty Volga, with more than 50 bottles and 11 house infusions best downed with cheese-stuffed vareniki dumplings or shimmers of smoked fatback smeared with honey on bread. Yes, you want the horseradish vodka; yes, it will part your hair on the opposite side of your head.    

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  • Inside a slim doorway, up a flight of stairs, and through a door guarded like the Pope's chambers stands a room to defy Portland's do-it-yourself capitalism: leather chairs the size of Texas, art gallery art, brick and Wainscoting galore, and bookshelves brandishing enough whiskies to qualify for a Library of Congress number. In an egalitarian city, the pomp is a welcome change, down to vested waiters juggling beakers and bitters and theater at rolling tableside carts. 

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  • From a den of dark shadows and dripping candles comes exacting cocktails, turntable spins, and the spicy surprise of Burmese noodles, courtesy of budding bar star Kyle Webster and his James Beard-winning wife, chef Naomi Pomeroy. Order whatever you like, but the eight nightly specials are the show, each formulated to the drop and accompanied by a historic footnote.  

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  • Everything you need in a bomb shelter is found one-story below a teeny storefront of slinky curtains and pantry finds: a dim bar, micro-booths, happy xylophone music, and forgotten cocktails -- luscious Amaretto sours to milkshake-y Grasshoppers -- reborn as objects of desire on metal trays to pair with crunchy bocadillos sandwiches. Die now, with a smile. 

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