Treating Puritanical expectations with a wink: Grace

You know how in old westerns the doors of a tavern are these tiny, chest-high swinging things? Outlaws make grand gunblasting entrances through them, and drunks get tossed out from the bar to the dusty street outside almost like there's no barrier at all.

It's pretty much the opposite prospect looking up at the tall, heavy and Hymnal-red doors at Grace Restaurant on Chestnut Street. Not the least bit permeable like the saloon, here you really commit once you go inside. After all, the space is a refurbished church, complete with high-steeple and ornate, beautiful exterior. I expect my only option is to enter with hushed reverence and "have a little talk with God" a la Stevie Wonder.

The vibe's a little different once I take that first step. Some dirty Muddy Waters is cranking through a powerful sound system, and the entire place is aglow like some tropical grove on Pandora. Blues, purples and golds warming a conical ceiling, pools of stained glass lit with romantic, well-placed lamps.

Stripped of its ordered pews, Grace has plenty of space for spacious four-tops and intimate couples tables alike. The bar itself is the nerve center, operated by two lovely ladies, both named Meg. The kitchen is wide open, the exhaust vents are built into to where the massive pipe organ used to be, recalling the mechanical arms affixed to Doctor Octopus. It's really quite a thing to behold.

"What's your favorite drink on this list?" I ask the red haired Meg.

"That's kind of a weird question given that I'm insanely pregnant," she responds. Whoops! No presumptions at Grace. Ultimately, she decides I need to try the house infused strawberry-pineapple-jalapeno tequila, which is a rather devilish magic booze that comes in the Heated Affair, Grace's margarita. 5 minutes later, the tongue is still tingling from the fruit-peppery tang.

If you noted a certain playfulness in the cocktail's moniker, especially given the setting, it's not by accident. In fact, Grace must have decided beforehand to actively combat any churchy overtones by treating Puritanical expectations with a wink. Consider these titles: Holier Than Thou, Heated Affair, Limbo, Divinity, Enlightenment, and Redemption. In fact, if you drink enough of any one of those drinks, it leads you straight to that thing that it's named.

Underneath a massive stained glass window is another bar upstairs, as well as a packed cocktail lounge. Everywhere, there is laughter, enjoyment, and delicious food and drink, in a most unlikely context. At Grace, an ancient Episcopal church has turned into Portland's own wondrous temple to gastronomy.

Honest food and drinks at the Grill: Grill 233

Pat's Pizza in Yarmouth, a favorite of spot of mine, so checking out their other restaurant, Grill 233, was quite appealing to me.

An awful lot goes down within these narrow walls: Deer Run Tavern

Two things were surprising upon entering the Deer Run Tavern on a winter Tuesday night: first, the place is packed. Four out of five stools at the bar are taken and there are parties of four and five scattered around, making for a very busy three-person staff. Second, its cozy confines consist of just a bar and one lane of tables, kind of like a low-overhead tapas bar in Madrid.

Not to convey the wrong image of the Deer Run, which is decidedly more folk-country than flamenco. It's just, for the limited space, there is an awful lot that goes down within these narrow walls. Consider, for a so-called 'Tavern' which has one of Yarmouth's most cherished Happy Hours, the challenge of facilitating raw oysters, or a grilled 10oz sirloin with blue cheese($14.50), or even, a famous slice of Key Lime Pie($3.29)?

Though the Deer Run offers and delivers "casual" dining in a relaxed atmosphere (I'm taking notes by candlelight, for example), there is an awful lot going on to create the best possible guest experience.

In addition to all the food and drink serving, it's actually Open Mic Night, and the host is offering a growling Johnny Cash cover, getting hoots from the crowd every time something unlawful is described. Maybe it's the jailbreak lyrics, but despite the comforting egg yoke colored walls, and the Mom-like wildlife art choices, the Deer Run has something of a rough and tumble feel.

There are moments of this rowdy performance when, Folsom Prison style, the men at the bar start beating the pulse of the song into the bar with a fist. The center baskets at each table feature salt, pepper, and something rugged-looking called "Texas Pete's Hotter Hot Sauce." The place has its number one need down pat, a spirited, loyal band of regulars that, once they walk in the door, are game for whatever comes their way.

The flat screen TV over the bar, the sound far overwhelmed by the country acoustic guitar, is tuned to the Speed Network, which is like an all Motorsports ESPN, and it is being watched, in the near eternity, by a bust of a buck mounted on a nearby wall. There is also a 1/7th sized wooden carving of a menacing wooden black bear, paws forever ready to maul, gracing the window-side corner of the bar.

Oddly inspired by the Maine icon, I order a Hibernator ($4.50), a favorite draft with special sedative properties. Speaking of sleeping, had I known this tiny place boasted an award winning chef, I would have come with real meal appetite and dug into the Reuben ($9.99, corned beef, kraut, 1000 island dressing and swiss on rye). It says casual dining, but the more appropriate word might be comfortable, a notch beyond just casual.

Between the winter warming plates on a rich menu, the freshness of local draft ales, and the clamor of the Cash-loving crowd, this type of tavern is a refuge warm enough to smile in, a home for a community of different neighborhood families.