If you choose to torpedo your vegetarianism, the Reel ’m Inn Tavern is a pretty fine place to do so.
When I entered the tavern—located at 2430 SE Division St.—Saturday, Oct. 22, I had not eaten poultry in over seven months.
I was there for the same reason most go to Reel ’m Inn: the deep-fried chicken and jojos (in that order). After several months away from Portland as a nascent vegetarian, indulging in Reel ’m Inn’s crispy, grease-soaked fried chicken felt like the right way to fall off the wagon. headfirst and hard.
The menu is almost comically one-note, basically offering tiny tweaks and derivations on crispy chicken and scalding hot potatoes. (Note: stronger men than I have attempted to defy the unwritten Reel ’m Inn commandment—Thou shalt let thy jojos cool for at least ten minutes—and have the tongue scars to prove it.)
A diner can order various combinations of breasts, thighs, wings or legs accompanied by the desired amount of jojos. Yes, there are assorted deep-fried add-ons like onion rings, fried mushrooms and mozzarella cheese sticks, but there’s a reason that the sign outside reads, “The Reel ’m Inn Tavern: Chicken & Jojos.” Reel ’m Inn follows what is, for this diner, the most vital gustatory maxim: Do one thing and do it well.
The chicken is that pitch-perfect synthesis of crispy and moist and arrives at the table with a six-pack of sauces. The jojos are supremely tasty. Like the chicken, they have the ideal crunch-to-moistness ratio, but their temperature causes them to function more as logic puzzle than foodstuff:
How exactly does one consume such a delectable half-moon of potato if its internal temperature will cause permanent damage? My solution: Plan a half-pitcher of PBR per jojo (they are literally one-half of a potato, sliced lengthwise) and gobs of ranch and/or ketchup. Your tongue will thank you.
As is de rigueur for any legit dive bar, Reel ’m Inn’s cocktails are stiff and its beer cheap. As far as the “atmosphere” goes, the restaurant is refreshingly slapdash. The chalky writing covering the wooden ceiling beams, the various animal pelts, an old-school cigarette machine and boxes of empty bottles stacked about signal that the food is the focus and that “interior design” isn’t a top priority.
The jukebox is digital, yes, but features decidedly analog music, leaning heavily on that era of country & western before “country” was a dirty word—Merle Haggard, Hank Williams and Johnny Cash are front-and-center, complemented by a smattering of soul.
So how did this fickle vegetarian fare with his first fried bird in seven months?
Well, after annihilating a breast in a personal best of three minutes, I sat borderline comatose, stoned on fried chicken and beer. This was immediately followed by my grass-fed stomach staging a mini-revolt—due not to the food, mind you, but to my meat-weak constitution.
I attempted to quell my nausea with large amounts of cheap American Pilsner. I am delighted to report that I drank my way through it.