A buddy and I stepped into Amnesia Brewing after spending the afternoon tuning up my bicycle.  Every time I passed the place the outdoor beer garden was packed and in my effort to sample of the local breweries, I saw no reason not to enjoy some hometown brews.

After walking through the outdoor seating, the two of us saddled up for a few pints.  It was late afternoon, so the empty bar consisted of an old, graybeard in suspenders and the bartender, a woman in her thirties with wild hair and a faded, floral dress.  After perusing the menu of six house beers and four eating options for about ten minutes, the bartender came over and asked for our orders—an ESB and Copacetic.

The clock ticks off another ten minutes, and the bartender comes back with two empty pints reaffirming our orders.  I feel like I should be angry—or at least a bit irritated—but there is something about her earnest personality that puts me at ease.  After pouring our brews, she trekked to the far end of the bar where she proceeds to chomp down an apple and chat with a customer who is dropping off a bottle of homebrew for Amnesia’s head brewer.  The atmosphere is relaxed.

There is something about Amnesia that really speaks to me; I can’t really figure out if the place is good of bad, but I enjoy it.  It’s a bit like eating a chocolate whose fruit filling catches you off guard, but despite your trepidation you continue to enjoy it.

My opinions by Amnesia were further formed after I peaked at my freshly poured pint.  The ESB had an amber, almost hard cider like color.  However, the orange tint was more akin to the brews I made in my kitchen than pints I’ve ordered in legitimate establishments.  The beer looked like a grog brewed by English publicans one hundred years ago; it was thick, cloudy, and to my astonishment, incredibly tasty.

Upon finding out that Monday was happy hour all day, my drinking buddy and I decided to order some grub and a pitcher and enjoy the atmosphere.  A few more regulars straggled in—one was bearing a plate of salmon he recently smoked himself—so we made ourselves comfortable in anticipation to our beers.

After the bartender attached a short rubber hose to the tap and started pouring our pitcher, she walked away and began talking on the telephone.  My friend and I looked nervously towards one another as the beer began overflowing, pouring the equivalent of several pints into the drip tray.  I began chuckling as we tried to flag down our absent-minded server, who was still chatting happily away on the phone.

Again, I couldn’t be mad; there was beer spilling everywhere while our tattooed waitress hovered around oblivious to the disaster and patrons happily munched away home-smoked fish.  The smells from the outdoor grill wafted into the bar and when we finally got our bartender’s attention, she glided over to the tap, cleaned up the pitcher and poured us some pints.  She laughed at the mess, gave us a smile and went on her way.

Welcome to a Monday afternoon in Portland.