The Mead Hall
A mood has settled on the city. “Portland’s over,” it goes. Partly it’s a hangover from Covid, partly a reaction to the houselessness crisis. And partly it’s a sentiment all immigrants to this town eventually seem to discover. They lament, after some years living here, that Portland’s just not the same. The magic that brought them (almost everyone is from somewhere else) has seeped away. I’ve lived in Portland 36 years, and I remember the old-timers complaining about it when I got here. For a few years I worried I’d missed the golden age—and then I realized “golden age” was just shorthand for “when I got here.” For 36 years people have been complaining that Portland’s done.
Cities have a way of renewing themselves. I discovered a hallmark example in a slightly remote pocket of Southeast Portland last night: the Wyrd Mead Hall. Tucked into the basement underneath a coffee shop, it doesn’t look like much from the outside. Descend into the murky darkness and you discover the impressive recreation of a vaguely Viking-esque drinking den. They’ve installed two medieval-looking fireplaces and draped the walls in what looks to be functional weaponry.
The feel is much more LARP than aggro, though, and indeed, a prime function of the place is game room. One hears the clatter of polyhedral dice and talk of trolls and dwarves. So central is gaming that the prime table sat there off limits when we arrived. It’s reserved for a regular group, stammtisch-style. I was there to get my nerd on with my own gaming group, and we eyed the better table with envy. Sure enough, a party flowed down the stairs and soon settled in, laptops and dice at the ready.
It is a perfect blend of those quirks that draw people here—and make the town so mockable: a sincere but also winking nerdiness, acceptance of the alternative, plenty of utili-kilts, and of course, alcohol. Wyrd is the house meadery, and meads are the drink of choice. No matter where you go, you’ll find that Portland is a drinking town. Bowling alleys, strip clubs, movie theaters—they all have taps serving something tasty. Gamers here prefer a pint to a can of Diet Coke—and some prefer a pint of mead.
Around 9:30 one of the bartenders strode into the middle of the pub thumping a drum. “All right, nerds,” he boomed, “it’s last call!” It could have been a Portland of 2022 or 1992, but it was definitely Portland.