Novare Res Bier Café - Portland, ME

I am a red-blooded, ruddy-handed, glint-eyed American man. And you know what I want? Beer. Don’t give me this mumbo jamma about what beer I can and can’t drink. Beer’s beer; that’s about the truest statement I think has ever been put to page.


Beer’s not about snobbery. It’s about guys who want to get a good haze on, shoot some cornhole and maybe pinch an ass-cheek or two. When I set up at the bar with a couple of Dupont Bierre du Miels there’s no pretension there. That’s just a man enjoying some hops, barley, water and tinges of esters and citrus.


So don’t start telling me, “beer is the new wine.” I’ll put you in a barrel and stomp you with my bare feet. I’m a beer man! I don’t care if it’s a Budweiser Lager or a Kerkom Bink Hopverdomme. I know what’s accepted to drink as a confident, virile American man: beer.

If it’s not some variation of brown I cannot drink it down.


You might lament the fact that we’ve got craft breweries coming out our tits. All these bearded, tattooed overall-wearers pumping out doppelbocks, doppelhop-trippels and all whatever-the-hell else… but that’s all just beer! Samuel Adams’d be high-fiving the piss out of our collective American hands for getting so much sauce out there. It’s just a proliferation of the American spirit! And don’t try to tell me that we’re late to the party, that all sorts of German and Czech beer traditions outdate the founding of America itself. I don’t care who did it before us; we still did it first.


You think because I’m drinking a Belgian Vapuer Cochonne that makes it any less American? Wrong! Soon as that barrel rolls onto American soil it’s imbued with the stars, stripes, Indian tears and blessings of Jesus H. Christ himself.


That’s the American way! Take what you like and call it yours. Pizza comes from Italy? Wrong, it comes from a hut. Shrimp and grits is Cajun? Wrong again, Cajun is a seasoning and you can get the hell off my porch. There’s only one ethnic group in America and that’s American.


How do you like us now, Euro-zone? The American capitalist powerhouse is hoovering your beers right out from under your raised noses! I’ll tell you who John Galt is; he’s the bro wearing Chubbies who just beat you at pong. Merci, danke and děkuji!


You know what we don’t import? Humility. Why should you when you’re the best?


I’ll tell you right now that you can’t wow me with your fancy romancy French wines, stink-cheeses and boner bread. You dare to put a half-glass of grape juice in front of this old dog’s mug? I’ll splash it on your petticoat. But if you set me up with a goblet of Bavik Petrus Blond, why I’ll kiss you on both cheeks.


Now I can’t speak for no California liberals because I’m not about to tour Napa on a Segway. But I won’t even argue about wine vs. beer. All wine tastes like to me is surrender. What I will argue about: the statistical importance of OBP vs RBI over a cool Blaugies Darbyste.


You know what that cool draught’ll be washing down? America’s holy tubed meat-grail: hot dogs. Will they be red dogs and not the traditional frank? Sure. Will they be covered in kimchi and Korean mayonnaise? Why the diddly not? You can try to take the hot dog out of America, but by G-d you can’t take America out of that wiener.

That's a Kim Jong Dog, son. 

See, I’m just an average guy who likes his facts in black and white—preferably white. Republican or Demoshat. Rich or poor. Beer or wine. Tell nuance to apologize then get its sorry ass back to Canada.


What I’m saying is, I’ll drink a De Glazen Toren Cuvee Angelique. I’ll drink a Het Sas Leroy Paulus. I’ll even drink a  ‘t Gaverhopke Koerseklakske Saision. Because those are beers and beers=America. You got another opinion? I’m not listening. To me, a beer is a beer no matter if it tastes like burnt wood or a dandelion in orange juice. Because if beer ain’t just American anymore, what is anything? Who am I? How did we all get here? Who are you? And where do you get off trying to argue that steals matter more than slugging percentage? Huh?


Is that what we were talking about? Sorry brother, I’m kinda ripped.




3.5 Stars

You’re coming for the beer; let’s just get that out of the way. The food is still solid, but you’re here for beer.


As You Like It

With beers ranging from $4 to ~$15 (the norm being around $6-$8) you can end up spending quite a bit if you so choose. The food is right in the same range.



Indoors it’s all rocks, wood, mortar and low-ish ceilings. Outdoors you’ve got a run-of-the-mill porch (that’s quite large). The inside exudes character, the first and foremost source of aforementioned character being the formidable wall of taps behind the bar. Add to that multiple rooms (some you can’t even enter without club-member status) and you’ve got yourself an interesting joint! Think wine cellar meets bier garden.


How Packed?

On the weekends it’s normally hopping (don’t even pretend I intended that pun), which means you’ll have to wait a bit longer to get your order in. Weekdays you’ll feel like a pampered schoolgirl.



It’s by far the most impressive beer joint in Portland. The food is worth ordering if you’re hungry, with some pretty audacious menu items like Kim Jong Dogs (red hot dogs smothered in kimchi and korean mayo), or the Ban Mi. The real reason you’re going is to try a beer you have never heard of, of which there is ample supply.