Portland leads the pack for chefs and restaurateurs to strut like superstars, waving their tickets to birth and background in frothy good will. That leaves a place like LFK in precarious limelight, its firmament aflicker in irreverent ways. Like the naughty boy acting out, it defies convention in so doing what it does so well: hosting a nightly asylum of imbibing foodies in nocturnal repose–a smattering of bohemians in the midst of high gastronomy all around it.
It’s blessed with a bird’s eye view across Longfellow Square; diners at the bar
