Going Out No. 23: Pacific Standard

Monday night at Portland's favorite hotel bar.

Welcome! This is the Going Out edition of Riley’s Recs, where I review a restaurant, bar, or activity here in Portland. Every Sunday, I also share Staying In recipe recommendations for your week. Don’t forget to check out pdxrecs.com for even more recommendations and follow RR on Instagram at @rileysrecs. Enjoy!

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Meal: Happy Hour

Price for one including tip: $57

To eat: Drive-Thru Burger, Fries, and Butter Lettuce Salad

To drink: Vodka Martini and Amaretto Sour

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A nice hotel bar is a pleasant surprise. A great one is downright romantic. And Pacific Standard, inside the Kex Hotel off of NE Couch and MLK Jr. Boulevard, is a great one.

It’s the soft lighting. The soft seating. The soft sounds of chatter and cocktail shakers that become some kind of ASMR. Every element works together to create a boozy, cozy living room you can’t help falling in love with.

Another reason to love Pacific Standard: it’s an incredibly pleasant place to write, read, and work. At the risk of sounding cliche, it feels very Hemingway. I knew, when I picked Pacific Standard as my next review, that this was where I was going to write it. Martini in hand.

So I spent a recent Monday evening here, typing and people watching. I wasn’t sure what to expect on a weekday. But it’s a hotel bar, after all. There’s always something to see and overhear.

5:50 PM

I made it in time for happy hour. After ordering a vodka martini and food, I make my way to a two-seater near the window. Across from me is a large table with eight male coworkers. Wingtips, fleece vests, identical haircuts.

At the bar, there’s a woman sitting by herself with a glass of white wine. Nearby, two men with patterned shirts are drinking Old Fashioneds, their feet dangling from the stools.

Lorde is playing on the overhead speakers.

All around me, more groups of coworkers are finishing their first round of happy hour drinks. On my left, two teachers are complaining about admin: “Do you expect us to give a passing grade if the student fails?” On my right, another duo keeps it more cordial. Something about “delays in contracts” and how well a presentation went.

The hotel lobby receptionist is playing Solitaire behind the desk.

What Gregory Gourdet is to food and Morgan Eckroth is to coffee, Jeffrey Morgenthaler, the co-owner of Pacific Standard, is to cocktails. He’s reached celebrity largely thanks to his time at two of Portland’s most iconic drinking spots, Pepe Le Moko and Clyde Common (both, unfortunately, closed).

But he’s also risen to fame for simply being a big beverage nerd. On his blog, alongside a generous number of free recipes, you’ll find a series of spreadsheets for bartenders, including one where you can add in ingredients and volumes and it will spit out the alcohol content.

He reminds me of Kenji Lopez Alt—you know, the kind of person who meticulously tries to perfect a classic like scrambled eggs or, in Jeffrey’s case, Irish Coffee. He’s even tried his hand at canned cocktails, a challenge on par in difficulty with finding a cure to Alzheimer's.

Increasing transparency around ABV (alcohol by volume) is his newest thing. He wants everyone to have options, no matter where they sit on the sobriety scale.

In a recent interview with

Good Drinks

, Jeffrey said:

“I'm in a good place, having been a big drinker and then a total non-drinker and now an occasional drinker, and I do think that helped drive the menu design. At the end of the day, we want people to hang out and spend as much time with us as possible and we want to give them the tools to do that.

Noting the ABV of a drink is commonplace in the beer world (it’s why I know not to order an Imperial Stout at 10 pm.), so why not cocktails?

At Pacific Standard, every drink has an ABV listed, and there seems to be something for everyone: from non-alcoholic options like the Tiger Balm to low-proof ones like the Cynar Collins (2.3%) to more spirit-heavy classics like the House Old Fashioned (39%).

6:20 PM

The vibe is shifting. The teachers are gone. So is the table of eight. The two men at the bar have ordered more Old Fashioneds and are watching funny videos on their phones.

The previously polite coworkers to my right have officially broken the seal on workplace gossip: “I was going to fire her before spring break. The only reason I didn’t is because I was like ‘I’m going on vacation right now, and I don’t have time to fire you.’”

A group of friends starts trickling in, claiming a large table near the front of the room. They clearly don’t know each other well. But as more people arrive, everyone is forced to squeeze together. Finally, one of them—a man in corduroy shorts and work boots and with a friendly mustache—breaks for the bar to order drinks.

A bright-eyed couple walks in. Sweaters and matching white sneakers. I heard recently that wearing white sneakers means you’re not getting any. I wonder if anybody told them.

At this point, I think about ordering another drink. I should probably go home and feed my dog. But one low-proof cocktail wouldn’t hurt?

A woman with a neck pillow is checking in to her room.

Food-wise, I love the Drive-Thru Burger. No notes. We have a lot of great burgers in this city, and I think I’d classify Pacific Standard’s as one of them.

Otherwise, I can’t speak to the menu because it’s changed entirely. Classic dishes like the steamed artichoke, oysters, and shrimp roll have been replaced with more eccentric options like Dorilocos with tuna, chicken katsu, and a Seattle hot dog.

Happy hour is offered daily from 3-6 pm and 10 pm to midnight. Those who’ve been before might be disappointed to learn that the offer is no longer $2 off all menu items, but $10 deal on a burger/hot dog and fries combo instead. No big deal for me—that’s what I’m ordering anyways. And $10 is a steal. But a noteworthy change nonetheless.

7:15 PM

At this point, everyone is eating fries. The bar is buzzing. CHVURCHES is playing.

The friends table is getting louder. The man in corduroy shorts is telling stories. Everyone is laughing. I’m proud of him.

Another couple has arrived with playing cards in tow. The woman sits down and starts setting up their card game; the man kisses her on the forehead before going to order.

He comes back with a beer and a Cynar Collins with a red and white striped straw. She offers him a sip and he says “Dude!” and she says “Right? It’s delicious!”

Another sip. A pause. A card shuffle.

“I’m so excited to get married.” They look at each other. I spy the ring on her finger.

Meanwhile to my right, “Do you have a Real ID?” from the white-sneakered man.

Portland is blessed with a lot of great hotel bars. But among my favorites (The Driftwood Room at the Hotel DeLuxe and Abigail Hall at the Woodlark), Pacific Standard is a standout.

It’s walkable from other bars and restaurants, it’s on the Eastside, it’s cozy, and the drinks are incredible. In the summer and on nice days in the spring, the rooftop becomes the Sunset Room, a tropical bar with slushies and other frozen drinks.

There’s always something happening.

The day I went to write this review, the stock market had fallen by about 4%. There was talk of a bear market. There were too many news alerts on my phone.

But life went on at Pacific Standard. People were having fun at 6 p.m. on a Monday. The bus ride home was actually pleasant.

And isn’t that why we go out? To escape? To be around other people? What better place to do that than a hotel bar. What better place than Pacific Standard.

7:45 PM

The man in corduroy shorts HAS ORDERED SHOTS for the table.

They take another group photo. Corduroy shorts is throwing up peace signs. I’m happy for them.

A new trio has arrived. One is wearing a camo hat. Another a camo shirt. The third, camo shorts. Why?

A hot dog is delivered to the card-playing couple.

The coworkers who have been here since 5 pm are gesticulating wildly.

The newly-dating couple to my right have switched to hushed tones. I manage to overhear: they met through a spike ball league. They’ve been hiding their relationship from their team. The wonder if anybody knows.

It’s time to go home.

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Photo credit for header image: Willamette Week.