I REMEMBER the first time I fell in love with a bar, and what it felt like when it broke my heart.
Max’s was beer only, and it smelled incessantly of piss and popcorn. There was no TV—just a jukebox, a piano, and a slanted pool table. Every now and then, they’d let motorcycles ride through the bar. It was commonly understood to be the inspiration for Moe’s on The Simpsons, even if someone inevitably called bullshit (I’m with the “yea” crowd). Even though it was only a few blocks from the college campus, Max’s wasn’t full of students. We’d sit at the bar with giant frosty mugs and listen to old drunks tell us their war stories—and I wasn’t so cynical then; it all sounded romantic.
Last summer, I was back in Eugene for a wedding. After the reception, some friends and I gave into our nostalgia and made a pilgrimage. Max’s was filled with flip flops and flat screens. The bartender was mixing cocktails for sorority girls. We were—in our late 20s and early 30s—the oldest people in the bar (a fact a young lady at the next table was quick to point out).
If Max’s had a Portland equivalent, it was undoubtedly the old Lutz Tavern. For 60-some years, the Lutz served cheap swill to blue-collar folks and Reed kids that didn’t mind walking those extra few blocks. It was beer only, cash only, and served the bare minimum of food that the OLCC required. It had its own (disputed) notoriety—many credit the bar as the birthplace of Pabst as its current cultural signifier—and a great many people loved it.
In September of 2010, the Lutz closed down. The owners were borrowing money to keep the doors open, and eventually decided that time was up. After a farewell bash, they closed up shop. A year later, it was reopened by the crew behind Clinton Street Pub and Crow Bar. Even though I laid no claim to the Lutz—I always enjoyed it, but I only drank there a handful of times—I fretted over flashbacks of my Max’s experience.
On paper, my fear was justified. If it’s inconvenience that keeps the assholes away, I saw signs of trouble: They were offering liquor and accepting credit cards. Instead of spicy pickles and cold cuts, they were serving burgers, wings, and other bar-food staples. It was a little sleeker, a little cleaner, a little darker… a little “hipper.”
But it was also a great neighborhood bar.
The new owners lost some of the clutter (and a lot of the lottery dollars), but the space is hardly unfamiliar. The red leather booths remain, as do the long, curved bar and the vintage phone booth. You can still choose from a selection of cheap tall boys ($2 each), and their microbrew selection includes taps from Boneyard, Bear Republic, Double Mountain, and Everybody’s Brewing among others (pints go for $4).
The kitchen might be the most welcome addition. Our waitress’ recommendation of the Brokeback Burger ($9, with fries)—their version of a Western burger, with bacon, BBQ sauce, crispy onions, and an off-the-menu addition of peanut butter—went over well at our table. The patties are nothing to write home about (and nothing to complain about either), but they do well with their toppings.
The fried pork loin sandwich ($8) is comically large. Served on a normal-sized bun, the breaded loin touches—even eclipses—each side of the basket. It’s not hyperbole when I tell you that this sandwich was bigger than my face. When I laughed and commented on the size, the waitress told me that mine wasn’t even on the bigger side. While I could only eat about a third of what they put in front of me, it’s no reflection on the flavor (mustard and pickles go a long way). The hand-dipped corndog, similarly, was about as big as I’ve ever seen.
Video poker, thankfully, is gone, but the back corner has a few pinball machines (Congo, Medieval Madness, and The Getaway, for you enthusiasts). TVs are present, but easily ignored if that’s not your thing.
I’m sure there are plenty of regulars from the old Lutz Tavern that’ll disagree with me. I understand. I spent an exhausting 15 minutes that night at Max’s, explaining to the girl that called me old why her favorite bar paled in comparison to its old incarnation. You can’t go home again, I guess. But if you can put all that behind you, there really isn’t a comparable bar in the neighborhood (and if you can’t, the Hidden East is still a total shithole). It may not be your grandfather’s favorite bar anymore, but it’ll probably be somebody’s.
Two things that are kind of sloppy with this article. First, there are no waitresses at the Lutz. The person who was serving you was a bartender. Not sure how this wasnt obvious. Second, there is only one television. You mention “TV’s”. Sure you were in the right bar? Like I said; kinda sloppy with the powers of observation. Just sayin….
and for what its worth; Moe’s Bar on the Simpsons was inspired by a bar called Fireside near Moyola Marymount Univ. in Playa Del Rey, Ca. Its funny, because its long been rumored that the Lutz was the inspiration for it, due to the fact that Matt Groening grew up here and used to go into the Lutz.
Well, well, well! Fucking Encyclopedia Brown over here!
If you are from the midwest like me and grew up on (tenderloin) fried pork loin sandwiches, Lutz has it down. I’d even say they’ve improved on it. I believe they’re the only spot in Portland that is currently offering one of midwestern proportions. If I’m wrong, please please please let me know. Plus they’ve got a pretty impressive selection of bourbons.
A guy with a fucking teenage mutant ninja turtle as his avatar is calling me nerdy?! Sorry dude, but it seems that the guy who wrote this article must have spent most of his time staring at his iPhone instead of the place he was there to review.
Also, I happened to be there when the girl who took the photos for this article was there and actually watched her walk up to the owner, tell him who she worked for and what she was doing, and then ask him to comp her tab. I almost spit out my beer. The fucking audacity.
Moyola? Is that where they drive Toyolas and watch the cute Boyolas? (I know, I know … totally exceeded the allowed snarkiness limit … will eat a Crayola as punishment.)
“On paper, my fear was justified. If it’s inconvenience that keeps the assholes away, I saw signs of trouble: They were offering liquor and accepting credit cards.”
Please provide a list of places where you spend your time drinking, so I don’t have to worry about offending your sensibilities.
Max’s in Eugene was absolutely not the basis for Moe’s. Neither was it ever the working class retreat Mr. Perez imagines. The students may have chased off the few winos who used to mix in, but this is just false history.
Nice to see that they fired the jackass that wrote this article. After all, journalism of all most any kind does require at least a small bit of factual accountability.
Don’t you have anything better to do than troll food reviews from weeks ago? Let it go, man…. we get it, you think Tony Perez sucks. Stop reading his articles if it eats at your soul day in and day out and you are driven to comment 4 times to express your frustration.
Drexler McStyles resides in Portland, OR with his wife Nicole and their finches: Isis and Dylan. Born near Denver, Colorado in 1974, he spent most of his formative years drifting through Southern California; as a young man temporarily settling in Venice Beach, selling his photography on the boardwalk and dabbling briefly in the adult entertainment industry. Disillusioned with the Venice scene he sold most of his possessions and headed for the far east; landing in Australia where he spent 6 months before ultimately moving on to S.E. Asia. eventually becoming involved in the smuggling of opium. Deported from Burma, he returned to the U.S. for a brief period before setting out for Mexico and Central America to write a book on the Los Angeles underground club scene. The manuscript for the novel, near completion, was destroyed when his bungalow on Lake Atitlan burned to the ground. Details about the fire are sketchy at best, and McStyles still refuses to discuss that particular episode. Once again he returned stateside for a short time until the events of Sept. 11th 2001 inspired him to move to Morocco. It was during a stretch in the Western Sahara that an attempt was made on his life, causing him to flee to Spain and eventually return to California. This was to be the start of a new chapter for him, one where he would meet his soon to be wife, Nicole. They moved to New Orleans in 2003 where they spent a year before packing up for SE Asia. Nearly killed in Malaysia by the tsunami of 2004, they returned to New Orleans to regroup. Little did they know it would only be a short time before they would be evicted from their 9th ward home by Hurricane Katrina. Taking their FEMA money and running with it, they found themselves in South America where McStyles became involved in the trafficking on cocaine. His 2nd attempt in the world of smuggling would end up much like his first, with both he and his wife barely escaping the authorities in Chile and returning to the US by way of a cargo ship. The journey took 3 months. Bruised and battered, much like the city they were returning to, McStyles decided it was best to lay low for awhile. Their decision to go to India was inspired as much by wanderlust as it was to leave behind the shell of a city they had returned to. 6 month later they returned, this time to California, where they would briefly gather themselves before derailing themselves with an unfortunate, 3 year stint in Albuquerque, NM. in 2010 they moved to Portland, where he had spet an early part of his childhood. While not expecting it to be his final stop, he does like to think it will be home for the immediate future. In addition to his photography, he has also published two books of prose: Decadence canyon (1999), and The Art of the Polaroid with Transistor Sound’ (2005)
Lovers of cool dives: check out the Pub at the End of the Universe. It rules