by Jaime Vazquez for pdxguide.com
August 2007

The Florida Room 435 N Killingsworth St. Portland, OR 97217 (503) 287-5658

From the outside, the Florida Room gives off the air of a ‘50s motel: one can easily see the sign outside someday reading “Vacancy – Free HBO,” although today it reads “Chelsea is Our Resident Scumbag.” I paused for a moment to wonder if that meant that Chelsea had won the election this time, or if this was a new title made just for her. As it turned out, the group that I came with included a Chelsea, and although ours had no insights on her counterpart, we did have fun scoping the room trying to figure out who was the real scumbag.

And that’s half the fun at The Florida Room: the characters that populate the booths and bar are a who’s who of the unpopular kids at school, and they’ve created a welcoming, if a little rough, environment. Goth kids park their bikes out front and crowd one of the side room; artists and indie rockers compare tattoos at the bar; grizzled blue collar guys wrap dirty fingers around cans of Bud. It doesn’t exactly give you the warm fuzzies, but the environment is so relaxed it’s hard to feel uncomfortable.

The interior décor matches the motel sign—it’s a kitschy dive bar, with a few mod fixtures and a whole lot of chrome. The bar has a mirror in the back, and the way the shelving is arranged, it creates the illusion that the main room is enormous, no matter where you’re sitting. Getting up and walking around, you can’t get past the reality that it’s essentially a train car with a side room, but for happy hour at a place like this, space isn’t really a major concern.

I sauntered up to the bar, instantly realizing I was due for dinner. I ordered a PBR, and the bartender caught me eyeing the specials board.

“Tacos? Ground beef?” I shouted.

“Pork, or beef?” she yelled back. The music, despite the fact that they play rock that’s authentic enough to make anyone want to dance with an overbite, made conversation near the speakers more than a little difficult.

“Beef.” She nodded, turned around, and headed in to the kitchen, only to turn around immediately and try to get my attention.

“We’re out of pork. It’ll have to be beef.”

Puzzled, I nodded and headed back to the booth where my friends were sitting. Plopping down into the vinyl booth, the vibe of the Florida Room struck me again—it’s a comfortable hang out spot, somewhere a group can hang out for a few hours without breaking the bank. If northwest bars are your thing, you may want to stay away—there are no heels here, unless you count the Ziggy Stardust moonboots on the goth folk, and there aren’t a lot of frilly drinks. What there is, however, is a lot of laughter; where some dive bars tend to be a bit depressing, especially in the twilight hours, The Florida Room is filled with locals having a good time—even if it is a raucous one.

The tacos were nothing special, but they did the trick. I never met Chelsea, but it’s not like I needed an excuse to come back.

The opinions expressed within are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of pdxguide.com or The Columbian Publishing Co.