Shake me another martini, please, and make it good and cold. It’s the perfect foil for the city’s best onion rings—for 80 years running, still piping-hot with little drip-drips of sacred oil anointing the white tablecloths. Tucked into one of the little booths at the sunken, dimly lit bar, you can watch the city flow in and out of Ringside, same as it ever was since 1944, modernized just enough to make sense in the twenty-first century. Where else can you choose from three kinds of Japanese Wagyu, six different steak sauces, a Brobdingnagian impressive wine list, and lobster mashed potatoes, all while watching the Blazers lose among your fellow Portlanders? For such utterly distinct pleasures, there is only Ringside.