Run by a cantankerous Irishman with the sort of gritty good cheer one imagines a denizen of the dark heart of Joyce's Dublin exhibiting after a few rounds of Jameson and a grudge match with some serious inner demons, Mort's (as it is affectionately known), is one of the diviest of Cleveland dives. The drinks are over-priced and the men's room is in shambles. The patio is coffin sized and gives onto a dirty alley and a sky high brick wall. And yet. And yet. This is where a certain magic happens. The cruel, electrifying magic your inner Bukowski craves. Take a look if you want something unpretentious and dark. Go running into the night if you are seeking anything resembling hip crafted cocktails or hair-flipping gentrified refinement.