"We've got a great crowd, all kinds of people," says John Jacome, 41, co-owner of El Tio Pepe, which he and his brother, Orlando, bought in March. "We've got Germans, but not that many. Argentine people come, too, and a lot of Brazilians. We've got Albanians and a lot of Italians and Mexicans, too. But for the [World Cup] games, most are from Portugal and Brazil."

Much like the vendors that line Castor like little embassies—Brazilian, Korean and Albanian among them—the Jacomes' patrons are a microcosmic (and, midway through the Portugal-England game, buzzed) United Nations. John dresses up Pepe's to reflect that dynamic, as a dozen or more uniforms melt into multinational psychedelia on either side of the bar. But the Jacomes, who came to the U.S. from Lisbon in the 1990s, don't stray far from their roots. They lay on a few coats of home—a majestic maroon-and-gold checkerboard paint job—and serve up traditional Portuguese fare, including steak, lobster, shrimp and paellas. For now, though, as England's Peter Crouch heads a corner wide of the right post, fans prefer bacalhau grelhado (codfish pastries) and rissois de camarao (fried shrimp pastries) by the plateful.

More palpable than Pepe's world-fair feel is the pantheon of emotion on display, the uncensored life of this joint.

Today, it's all about pride.

"Portugal's a nation of about 10 million people," says Portuguese native John Amorim, an assistant men's soccer coach at Temple and youth coach of U.S. stars Bobby Convey and Ben Olsen. "For us to get in the final eight in the world, that's fantastic. We're the smallest country of the final eight teams. They've honored the country."

After striker Cristiano Ronaldo nets the decisive penalty kick in Portugal's triumph over David Beckham and the English, 20-odd Portugal fanatics, including a leathery ol' grandpa who doesn't look Centrum Silvered-up enough to lift a yellow card, let alone his own body weight, launch into celebration. When they touch down again, a dead ringer for Don Vito sambas to a two-minute "Ole, ole, ole, ole! Ole! Ole!" refrain. High-fives abound.

It'll also be about pain, which the Brazilians, pre-tournament favorites, feel when France books their dream team a shocking return flight to Rio. These live-it-up party people, so loose-limbed and vibrant two hours earlier, sober up quick. One bartender, a 20-year-old from Goias named Eliety, buries her head in her hands, sniffles and stares into a nicotine fog. "No," she chokes, flattened. "No." When your national team's bus, with an army of happy-footed mononyms who inspired Nike's "Joga Bonita" campaign on board, reads, "Vehicle monitored by 180 million Brazilian hearts," a quarterfinal exit is a national tragedy.

Then, there's passion. And not the foam-finger, four-letter theatrics that pass for passion at the Linc.

"I got fired from my job because I went to this game," says Jose Solano, an immigrant from El Salvador. "I do siding in the city. I tell them I don't wanna work, you know. I wanna go. They say, 'Where you wanna go?' 'I wanna go to Pepe for the game.' They say, 'If you go, you fired.' There's nothing I could do. At least they let me take my tool belt. It doesn't bother me. I'll find a job, but tonight, I'm drinking."

Luke Jardel, a soccer junkie who's spent his life in Philly—a good portion of it at Pepe's (formerly an Irish bar)—feels Solano's pain.

"First off, I'm half Irish, so fuck England," he growls. "My wife's havin' a baby shower at the house, and I have a shrine with like 20 jerseys and all my soccer shit on the mantle. She's like, 'Get it down! Get outta here!' So I'm here. That's how it is: Passion is everything.

"I think these people are far more passionate about soccer than Americans are about football. Once in a while, you'll see an occasional Eagles fan with the plastic wings on his hat or whatever, but it's not the same. When [the World Cup] was in Japan, this place was packed at 6 [a.m.]."

And John Jacome, a lifelong fan of the Portuguese club team Sporting Lisbon (a green-and-white Leoes top hangs among the jerseys), says passion is forever.

"I schedule my vacations to make sure we have a big game there so I can go and watch," he says. "You grow up with that and you never forget. What they say in Portugal, it's like this: 'You can switch your wife, you can switch your car, but you never switch your team.'"

Hear that, Birds fans? Never.