which is housed in the former Portland Savings Bank, a high-ceilinged antebellum building on Exchange Street in the Old Port, tucked into a corner of Tommyâs Pocket Park, a tiny European-feeling square where street musicians congregate on benches under the old trees.
It was still light out. Tree leaves rustled in an ocean-scented wind. Seagulls shrieked on updrafts above mansard roofs. The brick of downtown glowed in the sunlight. It felt far too early, too nice out, to duck into a dark bar.
Then, through the plate-glass window in front, we caught sight of Ron with some other people at a big table. He saw us, too, and waved. In we went, feeling half-shy.
We entered through red velvet curtains into a foyer that wouldnât have been out of place in a Victorian bordello, which I mean in a good way: brocade fainting couch, low-hanging fringed lamps. The bar had exposed brick, vaulted ceilings, tile floors, stained-glass windows. The booths and tables were clearly designed to blend in and look as if theyâd been there forever. There was an old bank-vault door high over the bar.
That first Sonnyâs night, in addition to Ron, we were joined by two female novelists, two guys who ran the local indie bookstore, as well as an old friend of Ronâs from Waterville. We sat around that table until after eighty-thirty. (We would come to appreciate that in Portland, this is late, just as weâd come to appreciate getting home by nine p.m. after a big night out on the town.)
Throughout the fall and following winter, Wednesday night at Sonnyâs turned into a semi-regular thing. More writers and their spouses were folded in. One night, so many of us showed up that we took over the long table in the back room.
Several years later, Sonnyâs nights have become a social regularity. We all generally have two or maybe even three drinks over the course of an evening, enough to relax us but not enough to send us off our rockers. Weâre a warm, convivial, cheery bunch. We laugh a lot and have much to discuss. And this is New England: We create zero psychodramaâno contentious spats or pissing contests, no factions, backbiting, or bitchiness. We talk shop, commiserate over hardships andsetbacks and struggles, congratulate one another on books begun, finished, published, or good reviews, prizes won, and plum assignments.
And the thing about Sonnyâs itself, and our group of friends in Portland, is that we didnât choose them. They happened to us, just as we happened to them. But we couldnât have chosen a better bar or better people. Sometimes life is just lucky that way.
Our meetings have expanded to cocktail parties at our various houses, smaller dinner parties, individual friendships, andâgaspâoccasional meetings at other bars in town. But Sonnyâs is still the writersâ bar of Portland, Maine. And itâs always a Sonnyâs night in my mind when we all get together, wherever we are.
Buckwheat Blini with Crème Fraîche and Salmon Roe
Acadians in northern Maine and Canada have a long tradition of eating crepe-like buckwheat pancakes called ployes. Every Thanksgiving and Valentineâs Day, I make blini for breakfast. I use Acadian buckwheat flour fine-milled by Bouchard Family Farms in Acadia, all the salmon roe I can afford to buy from Browneâs Trading Company on Commercial Street in Portland, and thick, buttery crème fraîche that comes in a little pink tub. I serve these crepes with mimosas made of cava and blood-orange juice. They are festive and delicious, filling but light, the perfect kickoff to a day of occasional eating, and a tip of the hat to Maine tradition.
2/3 cup buckwheat flour
1/3 cup gluten-free baking flour
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 tsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
2 egg yolks
2 egg whites, beaten till stiff
1 T melted butter
Combine the dry ingredients and mix well. Add the buttermilk and egg yolks and stir until
It was still light out. Tree leaves rustled in an ocean-scented wind. Seagulls shrieked on updrafts above mansard roofs. The brick of downtown glowed in the sunlight. It felt far too early, too nice out, to duck into a dark bar.
Then, through the plate-glass window in front, we caught sight of Ron with some other people at a big table. He saw us, too, and waved. In we went, feeling half-shy.
We entered through red velvet curtains into a foyer that wouldnât have been out of place in a Victorian bordello, which I mean in a good way: brocade fainting couch, low-hanging fringed lamps. The bar had exposed brick, vaulted ceilings, tile floors, stained-glass windows. The booths and tables were clearly designed to blend in and look as if theyâd been there forever. There was an old bank-vault door high over the bar.
That first Sonnyâs night, in addition to Ron, we were joined by two female novelists, two guys who ran the local indie bookstore, as well as an old friend of Ronâs from Waterville. We sat around that table until after eighty-thirty. (We would come to appreciate that in Portland, this is late, just as weâd come to appreciate getting home by nine p.m. after a big night out on the town.)
Throughout the fall and following winter, Wednesday night at Sonnyâs turned into a semi-regular thing. More writers and their spouses were folded in. One night, so many of us showed up that we took over the long table in the back room.
Several years later, Sonnyâs nights have become a social regularity. We all generally have two or maybe even three drinks over the course of an evening, enough to relax us but not enough to send us off our rockers. Weâre a warm, convivial, cheery bunch. We laugh a lot and have much to discuss. And this is New England: We create zero psychodramaâno contentious spats or pissing contests, no factions, backbiting, or bitchiness. We talk shop, commiserate over hardships andsetbacks and struggles, congratulate one another on books begun, finished, published, or good reviews, prizes won, and plum assignments.
And the thing about Sonnyâs itself, and our group of friends in Portland, is that we didnât choose them. They happened to us, just as we happened to them. But we couldnât have chosen a better bar or better people. Sometimes life is just lucky that way.
Our meetings have expanded to cocktail parties at our various houses, smaller dinner parties, individual friendships, andâgaspâoccasional meetings at other bars in town. But Sonnyâs is still the writersâ bar of Portland, Maine. And itâs always a Sonnyâs night in my mind when we all get together, wherever we are.
Buckwheat Blini with Crème Fraîche and Salmon Roe
Acadians in northern Maine and Canada have a long tradition of eating crepe-like buckwheat pancakes called ployes. Every Thanksgiving and Valentineâs Day, I make blini for breakfast. I use Acadian buckwheat flour fine-milled by Bouchard Family Farms in Acadia, all the salmon roe I can afford to buy from Browneâs Trading Company on Commercial Street in Portland, and thick, buttery crème fraîche that comes in a little pink tub. I serve these crepes with mimosas made of cava and blood-orange juice. They are festive and delicious, filling but light, the perfect kickoff to a day of occasional eating, and a tip of the hat to Maine tradition.
2/3 cup buckwheat flour
1/3 cup gluten-free baking flour
1/4 tsp baking soda
1 tsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
2 egg yolks
2 egg whites, beaten till stiff
1 T melted butter
Combine the dry ingredients and mix well. Add the buttermilk and egg yolks and stir until
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