Flash's Cocktails

UPDATE: I'm sorry to report that Flash's Cocktails closed a few weeks back. No reason was given. Those of us who loved it will miss it terribly. If you never went, I hope you'll read this post anyway; I think you'll agree that the city lost a true gem.

If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to start this week’s post on a personal note. Today is the 1-year anniversary of Boston BarHopper’s first official post. The ensuing year has been a journey marked by exploration, experimentation, and meeting new people, and I’d like to thank everyone who’s been part of it. Maybe you told me about a bar I should check out, waited patiently while I photographed your food and drink, edited a post or a picture, helped me resolve a technical issue, asked me where you should take your friend from out of town, made me a fantastic cocktail, subjected yourself to an interview, shared one of my posts on Facebook or Twitter, gave me a push when I was lacking in motivation, or simply visited my site and read a few posts. Your contribution may have been great or small, obvious or unheralded; but it was not unnoticed. I’m afraid I lack the skill to adequately convey my heartfelt appreciation. Instead, I’ll just promise you another year’s worth of drinks, discoveries, and shenanigans, and I would be honored if you would join me.

With that in mind, the circumstances surrounding the subject of this week’s post seem rather fortuitous. Because after a year of visiting all manner of fun bars, from humble dives to glitzy trendsetters, there is still no greater pleasure for me than wandering into a bar I know nothing about, having no expectations, and finding myself utterly surprised and completely charmed.

I stopped by Flash’s Cocktails on a whim – in part to find out whether it even existed. I’d never been there and didn’t know anyone who had. When I’d mention it to people, I’d invariably get a quizzical look and the same comment: “Never heard of it.” The only reason I’d ever “heard” of the place is because it would periodically show up when I was looking for something on Google Maps and clicked on “Search nearby.” That’s actually how I ended up there on a recent Tuesday evening after work: I was headed to another bar that wasn’t far from this semi-mythical Flash’s Cocktails, and I figured I’d at least do a walk-by.

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Not that I had terribly high hopes for the place. I’d looked it up online, and while there was a respectable drink list, the red and blue colors of the website seemed kind of kitschy – more 1950s diner than modern cocktail bar. But I was in the area and had a little time to kill before my next stop, so I poked my head in to see whether it would make for a good post someday.

I never made it to the other bar.

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Upon walking in, I was warmly hailed by the bartender, and I’m pretty sure she called me dude; I should have known right then that I was there for the night. And my surroundings were not at all what I’d expected. My all-too-hasty glance at the website, coupled with the retro font of the neon sign outside, made me think I’d encounter black and white tiled floors, a bar that looked like a lunch counter, and loud colors throughout. Like a Johnny Rockets with a liquor license. Instead I found the interior to be entirely contemporary – fairly basic in its layout and décor, but comfortable and attractive nonetheless.

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There’s a horseshoe bar with about 20 seats, along with 10 or so tables in a room that feels small but is in fact fairly spacious. Large windows look out onto the streets of the Back Bay. Lights above the bar and strung along the walls create a cool glow, and funky artwork on the walls gives the place a very modern vibe.

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It was about 6 p.m., and things were quiet; only 10 people or so. As I found a seat and gathered myself, I overheard the bartender singing along to a Third Eye Blind song that was playing. A small detail, I know; but when the next song started and was abruptly skipped in favor of another, I realized the evening’s soundtrack was coming from the bartender’s iPhone. It made for a very casual, comfortable atmosphere, almost like having drinks at a friend’s house (a friend who makes really great drinks, that is; and then makes you pay for them).

I quickly began sizing up the cocktail menu, which was both extensive and conveniently organized into categories such as Classic Cocktails, Straight Up, Frozen, On the Rocks, Bubbles, and Smashing. This being no more than a scouting mission, I aimed to keep things simple, and opted for a Sazerac. The bartender seemed delighted to make it, professing a fondness for the New Orleans classic, and proceeded to whip up a strictly traditional version with Old Overholt Rye, Peychaud’s bitters, and sugar in an absinthe-rinsed glass, capped off with a perfect lemon twist.

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Impressed as I was with the drink, I still wasn’t planning on staying at Flash’s. Not that I was in a hurry; it was a snowy, rainy night, and I figured there’d be no harm in downing a beer before venturing out into the elements. The draft beer selection was small but impressive, populated solely by well-chosen microbrews – local favorites like Slumbrew, Jack’s Abby, and Portico, along with some excellent choices from California, like Lagunitas Cappuccino Stout and Backlash. The highlight was the hard-to-find Founders Breakfast Stout, which I’d previously sampled at Stoddard’s. That’s what I chose, and again the bartender again endorsed my selection. A robust beer with a coffee flavor that was subtle and not overpowering, it would serve to fortify me against the cold outside.

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But as the Sazerac and the beer worked their not-so-subtle charms on me, and the bar’s eclectic playlist shifted among 90s hits, alternative, and classic rock (with liberal song skipping), my other plans gradually began diminishing in importance.

Then a funny thing happened. I’m sure you can relate to the experience of having a really obscure song stuck in your head, something you haven’t heard in years. Well, all day, my internal iPod had Jimi Hendrix’s version of “Mannish Boy,” from the posthumous “Blues” album, playing on repeat. The 1994 album is a hodgepodge of previously unreleased live tracks and studio outtakes, and unless you’re more than a casual Hendrix fan, it’s probably not in your collection. Even if it is, you could be forgiven for overlooking track 6. But there was “Mannish Boy,” on a loop in my mind. And guess what the next song at Flash’s was…

Needless to say, I wasn’t going anywhere else.

I got chatting with the bartender, Laura, who seemed as interested in my notebook-scribbling and picture-taking as I was in the cocktail list, particularly some of the traditional entries. I noticed that their Manhattan was made with Jim Beam, of all things. Now, I appreciate an adherence to classic ingredients, but Jim Beam seemed a little…austere. That led to a conversation about whiskeys and bourbons and what works best in a Manhattan; and whenever I find myself in a discussion like that, it’s fair to say I’m having an engaging evening (though she scoffed at my preference for Maker’s). So I asked Laura to make me one according to her preferred specifications, and I was rewarded with a fantastic Manhattan with Bulleit bourbon and both sweet and dry vermouth. She even wrote down the ingredient measurements in my notebook.

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Since I was staying, that meant I was eating. The dinner menu isn’t terribly extensive, mostly a small collection of some sturdy comfort foods – burgers, mac and cheese, and a few other standards. Laura insisted I try Flash’s signature item, the fried chicken sandwich, with chipotle aioli and a side of garlic fries. The sandwich was delicious; crispy on the outside, topped with Swiss and cheddar cheese and bacon, with a nice kick provided by the chipotle aioli. It was a little dry on the inside, but I didn’t care. And the garlic fries stole the show.

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Along with that I got the Slumbrew Attic & Eaves, a toasted brown ale, which Laura called her favorite (I think she has a lot of favorites; I can relate). It was a dark, nutty beer that paired well with the spicy sandwich and made for a satisfying conclusion to the evening.

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I returned the following Saturday, on yet another raw, rainy night. I was pleased to again find Laura steering the ship and ordered up one of the oldest and most classic cocktails there is – an Old Fashioned. It’s a drink that’s been unnecessarily and unfortunately embellished over the years, but Flash’s version is refreshingly simple. I’d never had one served with crushed ice, which made for a nice variation.

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Next up was a Singapore Sling – a mix of gin, cherry brandy, Cointreau, Benedictine, lime, orange, and pineapple juice. For the first time, Laura’s response to my order seemed more diplomatic than enthusiastic. She graciously pronounced the drink “very fruity and delightful,” but I know a polite smile when I see one. Just the same, I was pleased with my choice. The Singapore Sling was like a Mai Tai made with gin instead of rum, so it had an unexpected dryness amid the pineapple and citrus flavors.

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Having mowed down most of the “Classic” drink list, I asked Laura to recommend something from one of the other categories. She suggested the Cucumber Smash, which I’d been eyeing anyway. Cucumber vodka, lavender syrup, muddled cucumber, and lime juice made for a crisp, fresh, summery drink that belied the dreary conditions outside.

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Inside, the atmosphere was warm and laid-back. I was there early that night, and there weren’t yet many people at the bar. The music was again kicking ass until some dunce insisted on playing songs from the jukebox, which nobody enjoyed.

As my evening started winding down, I figured I could use something light for the road. So I asked for “the champagne of beers,” the absurd and ironic slogan of Miller High Life. “The champagne of beers, eh?” Laura responded, smirking. Yes, that’s what I wanted. “The champagne of beers,” she repeated. I could see the gears turning; which, you know, seemed unnecessary in the context of retrieving a bottled beer. She disappeared and quickly returned with a champagne flute and a large plastic cup filled with ice. “Since you ordered it that way,” she said before pouring the High Life into the flute, with great ceremony, and resting the bottle in the makeshift ice bucket.

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You know, over the past year of barhopping, I’ve had some pretty hysterical experiences. This may have topped them all.

Last Call

My visit to Flash’s Cocktails left me grappling with the obvious question – why the hell had I never heard of this place? I mean, if it had just opened, that would be one thing; but it’s apparently been around for more than a decade, so I have to assume it’s fairly popular. Regardless, my ignorance serves as a reminder of how much I still have to learn and discover.

Speaking of learning, if I’d taken maybe 10 seconds to read the website instead of just looking at the colors, I’d have known there was a poignant story behind the throwback theme. The space that houses Flash’s Cocktails was previously a neighborhood diner – run by a Greek guy named Flash – that served breakfast and lunch for 20 years before closing its doors. The new owners kept the name when they renovated the space a couple of years later, maintaining a sense of continuity with what was a long-running and apparently much-loved local business. They also managed to re-create the easygoing vibe that no doubt characterized the diner, giving Flash’s Cocktails the personality of a casual neighborhood bar (even if many of their Back Bay “neighbors” are ritzy hotels).

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The prices are pretty typical. My cocktails were all $9 or $10. The beers were $7.25, which is maybe a little above average, but this was also a pretty unique offering of microbrews. My majestically presented High Life was only $4, so you’ve got options if you’re feeling thrifty. The chicken sandwich was $13, which seems to be standard for the area.

From the drinks to music to the friendly service, Flash’s made for an evening of pleasant surprises. I don’t know how I missed the boat on this place, but I won’t pass up an opportunity to return.

Address: 310 Stuart Street, Boston

Website:http://www.flashscocktails.com/

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Copyright © Boston BarHopper. All Rights Reserved.

Granary Tavern

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If you walk into a building that was once used for grain storage and your first thought is “You know, this would make a really great bar,” you either have a vivid imagination or you drink too much. Possibly both. Either way, Granary Tavern isn’t the first bar in the Boston area to use historical infrastructure as inspiration for modern design – in a town as old as this, you can enjoy cocktails in a former prison, beers in what was once a bank, and Southern comfort food at the site of a 17th-century printing press. But of all the bars that channel the spirit of their prior tenants, I’d have to say Granary Tavern does it best.

As the name implies, Granary Tavern is housed in a former granary built in 1816 on the outskirts of what we now know as the Financial District. Iron machine gears and burlap sacks adorn the exposed brick walls, conjuring images of 19th century laborers happily threshing and bagging wheat and barley all the livelong day.

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It’s a big, open room with a light brown, hardwood floor, and a ceiling of exposed wooden beams that are vestiges of the original building. The effect is almost barn-like, which makes sense – the owners of Granary Tavern actually purchased a 19th century barn in Vermont and repurposed the wood for use throughout the bar. The structure absorbed nearly two centuries’ worth of New England sunrises, turning the wood a deep amber hue and giving this months-old bar a sense of age and character.

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But amid the rustic backdrop are all the right modern amenities – two floors’ worth of craft cocktails, microbrews, comfort food classics, and a few mammoth TVs. The floor-to-ceiling windows, which offer a beautiful view, open up in the warmer months, and there’s an outdoor patio as well. A brick wall divides the upstairs space into two large rooms, each with plenty of tables, and a 12-seat bar extends into both rooms. Hanging pendant lights create an industrial vibe, and the whole place is bathed in an orange glow.

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I’d been wanting to check out Granary out since it opened last fall, and I finally visited a week ago. It’s popular – there was already a crowd of about 50 people when I arrived around 5:15, but in a place that can accommodate 250, it didn’t feel too congested.

What was congested on this particular Friday evening was Storrow Drive, delaying the arrival of fellow barhoppers Kelly and Melissa. Troubled by their plight as I was, I considered abandoning the bar and waiting outside, suffering with them in solidarity, despite the miles that separated us. Instead I perused the drink menu.

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Like so many places these days, Granary Tavern offers a bevy of craft cocktails. But the options here have a distinctly personal touch – each bartender contributed at least one original drink recipe, and the current menu is in something of a “tryout” phase. The most popular concoctions stick around longer, so there’s a spirit of friendly competition among some of the bartenders. The winner, of course, is those of us on the other side of the bar.

I began the evening with a Revolver, made with Bulleit bourbon, coffee liqueur, blood orange bitters, and an orange garnish. It was kind of like a coffee-infused Manhattan, which definitely isn’t a bad thing. I’ve been noticing Bulleit in a lot of drinks recently, and I can see why discerning bartenders like using this bold, spicy, and smooth bourbon in their cocktails.

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Next up was the Tavern Sling, an exquisite mix of Hendrick’s gin, St. Germain, mint, simple syrup, and fresh lime juice, with a splash of soda. I recalled from my intense studies at the Hendrick’s Cocktail Academy what a good pairing Hendrick’s and St. Germain can be, and this was no exception. The mint and lime, along with the sweetness from the syrup, naturally made me think of a mojito. But the gin gave it more bite, and the St. Germain contributed a soft, floral warmth. “That’s one of the ones we’ve had from the beginning,” the bartender, Colleen, told me. I can see why.

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It was a little after 6 when Kelly sauntered in, and by then the whole place was pretty full. Kelly ordered the Granary Smash, a recipe contributed by another of our bartenders, Tiffany. This one combined Patron Silver, St. Germain, orange juice, and fresh lemon juice. It was the first time I’d encountered St. Germain mixed with tequila, and not surprisingly, it worked well; I’m beginning to think St. Germain works with pretty much anything.

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Every drink on the menu sounded appealing, particularly some of the seasonal options, like Granary’s version of a hot toddy. Unable to decide, I asked Colleen for a recommendation, and she chose the Winter Sangria (one of her own recipes). It’s funny, but in looking at the menu, I skipped right past this one. For some reason, the name gave me the same feeling I get when I see “white” in front of “zinfandel.” I’m glad I took the suggestion, though, because this was one of the highlights of the evening.

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Merlot, cinnamon simple syrup, and a cinnamon stick made me think of a chilled mulled wine, well suited to the winter weather, while lime juice and soda provided subtle hints of the warmer months ahead.

After a leisurely two-hour drive, Melissa finally graced us with her presence around 7 and ordered a glass of Malbec.

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I prepared for the worst when we put our name in for a table, but despite the crowd, the wait was only an hour (not bad at all for a Friday night). We ordered some appetizers to take the edge off while we waited.

First up was a bowl of garlic chips and dip. The crispy chips were homemade, garnished with divine slices of garlic, and doused in oil. With a delicious, spicy dip on the side, these babies totally hit the spot. (There were enough chips to share among the three of us, and enough garlic to share with everyone we encountered over the subsequent 24 hours.)

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To that we added “chicken fried chicken,” and no, I don’t know how it got that name. What I do know is that the chicken was crispy outside and tender inside, and it came with more of that rockin’ dip.

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With a little food to sustain us, another round of drinks was in order. Kelly opted for the elegant Ginger Rogers, made with vodka, ginger liqueur, freshly squeezed lemon, mint, and a splash of ginger ale.

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Melissa went with the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, the flavor of which bears an almost eerie similarity to the cereal you remember from your childhood (if you’re still eating it as an adult, no judgment). This creamy concoction was made with Patron Café, vanilla vodka, Baileys, and cinnamon syrup, and was again the handiwork of Tiffany. Sinful, decadent, and delicious.

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I, meanwhile, was happy to explore Granary Tavern’s fine beer selection and settled on a Lagunitas. There are 10 beers on draft and plenty of bottled offerings, with a good selection of microbrews and an emphasis on local fare.

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We’d been waiting less than an hour when the hostess told us there was a table available downstairs. The lower floor is a little smaller and a bit less crowded than upstairs. It has its own bar, with a dozen stools, and features a custom tap built from old iron plumbing pipes.

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The ambiance is similar to that of the main floor, but with its stone walls and concrete floor, the downstairs feels more like a cave (albeit a really nice cave). And that stonework isn’t just for aesthetics; it’s the original sea wall, still in place from the 1800s.

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We settled in for dinner and ordered up a bowl of spiced popcorn while acquainting ourselves with Granary’s sandwiches, flatbreads, and comfort food entrees, all made with locally sourced ingredients and jazzed up wherever possible. The cheese fondue made with Harpoon IPA was particularly tempting, as was the chicken and waffle.

Kelly went with the fish and chips, which has become her customary order despite her complex relationship with seafood.

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Melissa opted for the roasted beet salad, which she loved; the goat cheese and pumpkin seeds sounded like inspired additions. Given my hatred of beets, however, I’ve made the picture as small as possible. Which is too bad, because it was cool-looking, too.

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I got the blackened catfish sandwich, which was spicy and tender and came with more of those delicious homemade potato chips.

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Dinner was a pretty relaxing affair. Kelly ordered a Tavern Sling, which I’d recommended from upstairs. And since I can almost never resist it when I see it on draft, I closed out with the smooth,  smoky stylings of a Kentucky Bourbon Ale.

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We hung out for a bit after we ate, soaking up the cool downstairs vibe and enjoying the excellent soundtrack of Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, MGMT, and the Killers. After months of wanting to come here, I was really glad this place didn’t let me down. I’ve been in plenty of new bars that use their style and popularity as a license for pretension; I got no sense of that here. The atmosphere was very casual and we had great service all night. There’s a lot at Granary that will change – I’m told the menu will fluctuate with the seasons, the drink list will always be in flux, and the respectable beer list will rotate frequently. But there’s a fresh, friendly, even humble attitude here that I hope will stay exactly the same.

Last Call

The food’s good, the drinks are great, and the setting is incredibly cool. What really stands out about Granary Tavern, though, is that it conveys the spirit of a small operation. And that’s unexpected; nothing about it is small, and I’m not just talking about the impressive size of this two-floor bar. It’s owned by the Glynn Hospitality Group, which runs seven or eight other bars in Boston. Call me cynical, but with that kind of corporate backing, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Granary felt prepackaged and rigid.

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Instead, I detected the energy and enthusiasm I’d normally associate with a newly successful, homegrown business. From the hostess to the bartenders to our waitress, the staff seemed earnest and genuinely friendly. The bartenders, perhaps by virtue of participating in the drink design, exhibited pride and a sense of investment in their cocktails. Every time I ordered another drink, the person who made it would come by and ask what I thought of it. That’s a small thing, but it says a lot. I also appreciated Granary Tavern’s general manager, Nikki, taking time to meet with me and tell me more about this very cool place.

Granary’s prices are fairly typical. The cocktails were all $10, which is pretty much the going rate, and most of the beers were $6 or $7. Sandwich and entrée prices are a little high, but not outrageous. My catfish sandwich was $15, Melissa’s roasted be*t salad was $9, and Kelly’s fish and chips were $17. Snacks and appetizers are reasonably priced – $3 and $4 for the popcorn and garlic chips, respectively, and $10 for the chicken fried chicken.

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Whenever I’ve mentioned this place to someone, particularly its being built in a former granary, I get some variation of “Oooooh, that sounds cool.” Yes, it does sound cool; the concept is enough to lure you in at least once. But Granary Tavern rises above the novelty of its setting and seems poised to thrive.

Address: 170 Milk Street, Boston

Website:http://www.granarytavern.com/

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Copyright © Boston BarHopper. All Rights Reserved.

Emmet's Pub & Restaurant

If you live in the Boston area, then you likely did not escape the wrath of the February nor’easter that spent last weekend walloping us.

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Perhaps you enjoyed it. I did not. I never do. For despite spending all of my life in the New England area, my tolerance for snow – and winter in general – diminishes with every passing year.

It was not always such.

When I was a kid, having a big snowstorm was like hitting the lottery. On a weekday evening, with worksheets of math equations in front of me, I’d listen with glee as the weather forecast worsened. I’d sit breathlessly by the radio or TV and wait for the announcement that school was canceled for the day. It meant that quizzes and homework were suspended in favor of sledding, building snowmen, and hurling snowballs at friends and younger siblings. Maybe a little igloo construction would be in order if a few of us were feeling industrious. Not a bad way to spend a winter day.

The change was gradual. As I got a little older, those snowbound pursuits would have to wait until I had helped shovel the porch and the driveway. A small price to pay for a day off, I suppose. But later there’d be movies, dates, and parties, long-awaited and carefully coordinated plans thrown into chaos by inclement weather and the threat of slippery roads. Sure, it was still nice to have a day off now and then, but when it came at the expense of the all-important social life of a high school teenager, the scales began to tip.

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And then, seemingly overnight, all the joy was gone. Schools being closed for the day didn’t necessarily mean your employer was giving you a mulligan. The weather that once signaled a carefree day of building a snow fort or reenacting the battle of Hoth now meant getting up an hour early to shovel out the driveway and enduring the biting cold while waiting for the inevitably delayed T. Walking to the bus stop or the office, an ordinarily uneventful act, became a test of agility and quick reflexes. The mere mention of snow in the forecast has become a harbinger of inconvenience and an invitation to media-induced hysteria. Oh, and a shit-ton of shoveling.

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But I’ll admit that once in a great while, I still recognize the charm of a snowy night. One such occasion that stands vividly in my memory took place a few years ago, when I was meeting some friends after work at Emmet’s pub in Boston. Since Emmet’s is just up the street from my office, I had time to kill before the others arrived. I took a seat at the far end of the bar, ordered a Guinness, and picked up one of the newspapers that were strewn about the bar. Midway through my beer I looked up and noticed it had begun snowing.

Have you ever had the experience of mentally stepping back, taking stock of a moment, and seeing yourself in the context of your environment? It’s like stepping outside of time, briefly, and seeing yourself through the eyes of a storyteller with a keen sense of detail.

This was one of those moments – drinking a hearty stout in a warm, quiet, Irish pub; reading the paper; watching big flakes of snow fall softly, filling up the window panes, against the backdrop of a dark winter night, punctuated by streetlights and headlights. It was simple, peaceful, and recalled the traditional notion of the bar as a public house – a place in your neighborhood where you’d stop in, warm your hands by the fire, unwind with a pint, and chew the fat with the bartender and maybe a few other locals.

It’s an image that’s stayed with me over the years, and while it hasn’t much improved my opinion of the winter weather, it’s given me an enduring fondness for this underrated bar.

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Situated on the outskirts of Beacon Hill, Emmet’s is an unassuming little place. Its proximity to the State House and many downtown businesses makes it an obvious after-work destination, but it’s a little less conspicuous than the bars on nearby Cambridge Street and along the Boston Common, so it tends to not become quite so packed.

Dark woodwork, cream-colored walls, and a worn-looking hardwood floor give Emmet’s the look and feel of a classic Irish pub. Framed black and white pictures of Irish people doing Irish things in Ireland offer accents of authenticity. An ornate wooden structure behind the bar gives the space a formal feel, and the bartenders look distinguished in their black vests and white shirts. Chandeliers cast a warm glow over the entire bar, and candles on the tables contribute a sense of intimacy.

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For a place that feels so cozy, Emmet’s is actually pretty spacious. There are about 15 seats at the bar and a surprising number of tables. But the tables are set up in distinct groups in various areas of the bar – a few tables by the windows overlooking the street, a few partitioned off in the central part of the room, and still more in the back part of the bar. The configuration makes each area of the bar feel small unto itself; and if you’re coming in with a group, you can easily commandeer your own little section. Further maximizing the space, the square support posts are outfitted with large wooden shelves that serve as makeshift tables with stools tucked underneath – also convenient for standing around chatting.

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Our sudden winter wonderland put me in the mood for drinking at a place like Emmet’s, so I stopped in on this past Tuesday evening with my friend and coworker Jen. (Incidentally, Jen was really hoping for the recent snowstorm; Jen also doesn’t have to shovel where she lives, but I digress.) Things were pretty quiet at 5; only about half a dozen people were there.

There are a dozen beers on draft, and the options are pretty standard – Guinness, Harpoon, Sam Adams, Stella, and so on, with a couple of less common choices like Whale’s Tale and Goose Island Honker’s Ale. I began my night with Harpoon’s Rye IPA, a crisp, hoppy beer that I’d been wanting to try since my recent visit to the Harpoon Brewery Beer Hall .

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Jen started off with a Malbec, which she pronounced to be “OK!”

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We shook off the winter chill and began perusing the appetizers. Emmet’s’ menu consists mostly of your basic pub fare and comfort food – wings, nachos, burgers, sandwiches, and so forth. There isn’t much in terms of traditional Irish cuisine, aside from the Irish bacon that finds its way onto some of the sandwiches (and, interestingly enough, corned beef raviolis). But the food is good, and Emmet’s makes an effort to use as many locally sourced ingredients as possible, which is laudable.

We began with Buffalo chicken nachos, which packed some surprisingly intense heat. Jen captured the experience eloquently and succinctly: “My face is sweating!” That didn’t stop us from devouring them.

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Now, one of the benefits of drinking with Jen is that she often has the inside track on alcoholic beverages that are just beginning to gain widespread notoriety. Granted, living life on the cutting edge of cool can have its drawbacks; her Four Loko phase, for instance, was as regrettable as it was short-lived. But it was Jen who led me to Meadhalllast summer for the sole purpose of trying Downeast Cider, for which I am eternally grateful. And at Emmet’s, she introduced me to Crabbie’s – an alcoholic ginger beer. Served over ice in a glass garnished with a lemon and a lime, it’s like the lazy man’s Moscow Mule. In a bottle. Brilliant.

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Nachos and malternatives are all well and good, but by this point I was ready to switch into full-on Irish pub mode. And that, of course, begins with a Guinness.

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For dinner I went with the excellent shepherd’s pie. If there’s a better comfort food to have at an Irish pub on a cold winter’s eve, I don’t know what it is. Made with very tender ground beef and vegetables beneath a blanket of mashed potatoes, topped with a thick, rich gravy, and served with crispy bread on the side, Emmet’s’ shepherd’s pie is top notch. I was completely full about halfway through, but it was so good, I just kept on shoveling it down. (It’s a choice I regretted later, but that’s another story.)

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I closed out the night with a Palm, which I ordered in part because of the distinctive glass it was served in and partly because it was billed as “Belgium’s amber beer.” I confess to not being a huge fan of the spicy, fruity flavor that emanates from Belgian yeast; I’d never encountered a Belgian amber, though, and was curious. I was pleasantly surprised by the Palm, which was smooth and rich, and entirely unlike the more typical Belgian style.

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For a Tuesday night, Emmet’s was surprisingly packed by 7:30 or 8; maybe because it was Mardi Gras, and where better to celebrate than at an Irish pub on Beacon Hill? Before it got so busy, though, I witnessed an interesting scene. A woman in her 70s walked in shortly after I arrived and sat at the bar. She knew the bartender and chatted with him while reading the newspaper and drinking what appeared to be a customary glass of white wine. She exchanged a few more pleasantries with the staff and left shortly thereafter.

It reminded me of that night when I had an hour to kill, watching the snow fall from within the warm confines of Emmet’s. It also helped me appreciate the neighborly atmosphere this bar exudes – which is kind of odd. As far as I know, Emmet’s isn’t some renowned Boston institution that’s been pouring beers for a century; nor is it tucked away in a residential area, serving a dedicated crew of regulars. It doesn’t even necessarily stand out among Irish bars, which would be tough to do in this city anyway. But whenever I’m here, I always feel very welcome; like the staff is genuinely glad I stopped in. And that – more than corned beef on the menu, Guinness on draft, or a Celtic folk band playing in the corner – may be the true essence of an Irish pub.

Last Call

Like I said at the outset, Emmet’s is an underrated, unassuming little place. I don’t often hear people raving about it or planning their nights around it; but I’ve also never heard anyone say they don’t like going there. And what’s not to like? It’s a comfortable bar in a great location with a friendly staff. That’s good enough for me.

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Their beer selection is respectable, if not outstanding. Having a couple more Irish beers on tap, like Murphy’s, would be cool – and a cask option would put them over the top. But just because there aren’t more extensive or exotic options doesn’t mean Emmet’s doesn’t take its beer seriously. Case in point – I overheard a guy ask for “a PBR or High Life,” and I swear to God, the bartender feigned deafness. The guy asked again and was politely told that those beers were not available.

Prices are fairly standard for a downtown Boston pub. My Harpoon was $5.50; the Guinness and the Palm, $6. Jen paid $8 for her wine and $7 for the Crabbie’s. Nachos were $10, and my delicious shepherd’s pie, $12.

One last note – Emmet’s has always been a convenient after-work destination for Jen and me, but the impetus for our recent visit was not merely to blow off steam after a long day. Jen is the creator of the always entertaining Mismatched Disharmony blog, in which she recounts the triumphs and pitfalls of online dating. Jen and I will be teaming up for an occasional series of blog posts in which we’ll visit some bars and discuss whether they’d be a good place to bring a date. We came up with a lot of fun ideas while at Emmet’s, and I can’t wait to get started. We’re aiming to get our first post up within the next couple of weeks.

And if the topic of “where to take a date who loves shepherd’s pie” ever arises, I’ll know what to suggest.

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Address: 6 Beacon Street, Boston

Website: http://www.emmetsirishpubandrestaurant.com/

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Copyright © Boston BarHopper. All Rights Reserved.

Sullivan's Tap

May 10, 1970. Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Boston Bruins vs. St. Louis Blues. Forty seconds into sudden death overtime, Derek Sanderson dishes the puck to Bobby Orr, who one-times it past the Blues’ goaltender, getting tripped up in the process and sailing through the air. By the time he landed on the ice, the Bruins’ 29-year Stanley Cup drought was over and the capacity crowd of 14,835 was in a frenzy.

May 26, 1987. Game 5 of the NBA Eastern Conference Finals. Boston Celtics vs. Detroit Pistons. Down 107-106 with five seconds remaining in the fourth quarter and Detroit in possession of the ball, Larry Bird steals an inbound pass from Isaiah Thomas and lobs it to Dennis Johnson, whose layup puts the game away in front of a hysterical crowd of 14,890. The Boston Celtics went on to beat the hated Pistons in seven games before falling to the even more hated Lakers.

These are indisputably two of the greatest moments in Boston sports history. Some of you may have witnessed them as they happened. Most of you, myself included, either hadn’t been born yet or were too young to care. Yet they live in our collective consciousness, even if we weren’t around to enjoy them. You can watch them on YouTube any time you like. And in the days prior to such instant online accessibility, you may have seen them replayed countless times on television. Even before that, though, you might remember being a kid and hearing your dad, uncle, or older siblings or relatives recounting those moments with a feverish reverence. You didn’t need to understand the X’s and O’s of a sport to sense the passion that your family had for a team. The ecstasy of victory, the agony of defeat, the unbridled emotions elicited simply from watching a game on TV – they created a powerful aura, and whatever its source, you wanted to be part of it.

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That’s why, to this day, I get the chills whenever I walk into the TD Garden and catch my first glimpse of the spoked B on the ice or the leprechaun on the parquet. I forget about the overpriced tickets, the overpaid players, the lockouts, and all the other nonsense that emanates from modern-day pro sports. I feel like a kid again, awestruck, as if attending my first-ever game, while at the same time appreciating the significance of taking part in a time-honored tradition that started before my grandparents had even met.

This feeling, I suspect, is not unique to me. And I think the joy that comes from immersing ourselves in such a rich tradition might explain why, despite a plethora of bars around Causeway Street where you can grab a pre- or post-game beer, the windowless, no-frills dive with the green, dimly lit, 70s-era sign is always jam-packed on game day. Because while you can’t watch the Bruins or the Celtics in the same building your parents or grandparents did, you can have a drink where they did.

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Located right around the corner from the Boston GardenShawmut CenterFleet CenterTD Banknorth Garden TD Garden, Sullivan’s Tap opened in 1933, the year Prohibition was repealed. I doubt it’s gotten much in terms of upgrades or makeovers since then, but I’ve yet to hear anyone complain about that.

Sully’s, as it’s affectionately known, is a Boston institution. Long before the area around Causeway Street became a hotbed of sports bars vying for the attention of Garden crowds, Sully’s was there. Plenty of bars and restaurants have opened and forever closed their doors in that time. Yet this unpretentious, blue-collar bar still stands. And having been anointed “Best Bruins Bar” by Boston Magazine and “Best Pre-Garden Bar” by the Improper Bostonian as recently as 2010, I’d wager a guess that Sully’s isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

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Accolades aside, Sullivan’s Tap is pretty much your typical dive bar. There’s a drop ceiling and the rust-colored tile floor that seems to come standard in places like this. No tables, no food, and no credit cards accepted – cash only. Barely an inch of wall space is visible beneath the neon Bud signs and framed pictures that tell a century’s worth of Boston sports stories. Even the large beer mirrors have printed drink specials and price lists taped over them.

And like any dive bar, Sully’s is not without its endearing quirks. As soon as you walk in, you can’t help but notice how incredibly long Sully’s is. There’s even a sign proclaiming it to be the longest bar in Boston, in case you needed confirmation.

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Support posts make the narrow space even more challenging to navigate when the crowd swells. The men’s room is unforgivably anachronistic (if you’ve seen it, gentlemen, you know exactly what I’m talking about).

Stretching almost the length of the main room is a bar with a whopping 30 stools (most places I’m in have about a dozen seats at the bar). The bar itself has a laminated top, and immortalized beneath the clear plastic surface are tickets from old Bruins and Celtics games. There’s also a decent-size game room of sorts, with all the dive bar staples: two coin-op pool tables, five arcade games, and a couple of basketball hoops games.

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The resulting vibe is that of a finished basement in a suburban veterans’ hall – exactly the kind of place where you could envision an older generation gathering to debate the current state of the B’s or C’s over a few brewskis.

Of course, a dose of nostalgia and a close proximity to the Garden aren’t Sully’s’ only merits. For starters, it’s a pretty inexpensive place to drink. And that’s actually what prompted this post – as the country teetered on the fiscal cliff last month and my post-holiday credit card bill arrived, I figured it might be a nice time to hit some bars where I could find some cheap beer. Sullivan’s Tap didn’t disappoint.

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There’s 15 or so beers on draft, and they’re the usual suspects – Bud, Bud Light, Blue Moon, Stella, that sort of thing. The bottle selection is mostly more of the same. If you’re looking for Pretty Things, Slumbrew, and all the other popular microbrews, you won’t find them at Sully’s; but you also won’t pay more than $5.50 for a beer.

As affordable brews go, a 16-ounce Bud Light “bottle” (assuming it still counts as a bottle when it’s made of metal) will run you $4.25.

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A 12-ounce PBR, served in an actual bottle (i.e., made of glass), will only cost you $3.

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If you insist on a higher class of beer, you’ve got Guinness, Bass, Harpoon, Long Trail, Smithwick’s, and a few others to choose from. I tried the Black and Red, made with Guinness and Killian’s. As I’d never had this particular pairing before, I take it as evidence that even at an old place like Sully’s, you can find something new.

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The Guinness/Killian’s combo was more interesting than I was expecting, with a surprisingly smoky essence; and at $5.50, not a bad deal.

But if you want to adhere more closely to tradition and drink like your forebears, why not opt for a New England classic?

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At $3 for a 16-ounce can, the Narragansett tallboy is the best deal in the house.

A $3 can of beer is what I instinctively order when I come here, but Sully’s’ liquor shelf is amply stocked if you need something stronger. On one of my recent trips, I opted for a rum and coke, which came in at a modest $5. I’m sure the bartenders here will make you whatever you want, but I can’t imagine ordering anything more complex at a place like this. At least not on a game night.

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But that brings me to one of the other charms of Sully’s – when there’s not an event at the Garden, the atmosphere can be quiet, almost private. Being so close to North Station, I would expect a place like this to draw a sizable crowd of people stopping in for a drink before their commute home. But around 5 p.m., I typically see fewer than 10 people here; and, much like at the Beacon Hill Pub or Whitney’s, it’s usually a few older guys who look like they’ve been there for most of the afternoon.

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That makes Sully’s a good place in which to collect your thoughts after a trying day, or when you’re looking for a quiet place to chat with a friend or shoot some pool. One night I enjoyed a Jameson on the rocks while waiting for my train. It made for a pleasant half-hour of hanging out, just watching ESPN and killing time. No crowds. While I was there, a guy came in and sat a few seats down from me. He ordered an Absolut and soda, drained it in two minutes, and left again. It can be that kind of place.

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But game night is a different story. When the Bruins are in town for a 7 p.m. game, most of the barstools are occupied by 5; by 5:30, it’s standing room only (and even that space can be at a premium).

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The crowd thins out when the game starts, but the atmosphere stays pretty lively. And if you’re not going to the game, Sully’s isn’t a bad place to watch it. Their six TVs might not be up to the standard established by modern sports bars, but Sully’s possesses a sense of Boston sports credibility that can’t be simply manufactured. Any bar can install a couple dozen TVs, plaster its walls with sports memorabilia, and try to appear like it’s been part of the Boston landscape forever, but long-time fans are too savvy. That said, there are plenty of places near the Garden to have a drink, and I think most of them are pretty cool. But for true diehards, there’s really only one choice.

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Last Call

Straightforward. Humble. Quirky. Lovably archaic. More functional than fashionable. I might characterize Sullivan’s Tap that way, but I could use the same words to describe the building that stood across from it for nearly 70 years.

I remember the old Boston Garden. I can’t say that I ever witnessed anything truly historic there, like a breathtaking playoff game or a trophy being lifted. And while the countless images of triumph and anguish that occurred within its walls are ingrained in the shared psyche of multiple generations of Bruins and Celtics fans, my memories of the Boston Garden are a little more personal.

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I remember a certain simplicity – in particular, an absence of the bells and whistles that punctuate the modern sports experience. I recall with fondness a time when a routine stoppage in play didn’t cue an assault on the senses – music, videos on the Jumbotron, Ice Girls, Celtics Dancers, games, contests, animated bears trying to get the crowd to make some noise. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that stuff – but the game is good enough without it. Using that time-out to talk with your friend about how the team looks, or dissect the last play – or maybe, when you were young, listen while your dad explained the rules to you – those things have more value to me.

And this, I think, is Sully’s’ true appeal – it hearkens back to a time when our favorite games seemed simpler, purer. With the space once occupied by the old Garden poised to become a high-rise development, Sully’s is one of the few remaining connections to the glory days that fuel our present-day passion. Since 1933, crowds have poured out of the Garden and into Sullivan’s Tap to celebrate a win or numb the pain of a loss. That tradition continues this season.

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And who knows? Maybe this June there’ll be a thrilling Game 7 that goes into sudden death overtime, and with seconds to spare, an athlete will become a legend, smacking the puck past the goaltender and sending the TD Garden into delirium. If you’ve got a couple hundred bucks to spare, maybe you can score a ticket and watch it with your own eyes. But if you’re OK with a $3 ‘gansett and don’t mind standing, you can still be part of history from across the street.

Address: 168 Canal Street, Boston

Website: None.

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Copyright © Boston BarHopper. All Rights Reserved.

Harpoon Brewery Beer Hall

It’s an idea that seems so obvious, I’m surprised it hadn’t already been done. And I do wonder why, after almost 30 years of brewing beer in Boston, offering daily tours of the brewery, and hosting brewfests every few months, it took Harpoon this long to build a bar in their visitors’ center so you could stop in and enjoy a few pints. Whatever the reason, the new Harpoon Brewery Beer Hall is well worth the wait.

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Part of a multimillion-dollar expansion of Harpoon’s Seaport District brewing facility, the enormous Beer Hall is equal parts modern and traditional. Since the doors hadn't yet opened to the public when I was there, the place feels new and looks pristine; but exposed brick walls, a gorgeous floor made from reclaimed wood, and long, communal benches made from butternut trees in Vermont create an atmosphere of comfort and familiarity.

The result is a cross between an industrial warehouse and a German beer hall. Circular metal chandeliers hanging from the black, exposed ceiling look stern and functional but cast an intimate glow on the soft hue of the wooden floor. The windows on the inner wall overlook the brewery’s kegging area, offering drinkers a glimpse of their suds in the late stages of production, while floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall provide a spectacular view of the city.

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Best of all, the Beer Hall seems like it was deliberately designed by someone who was familiar with the pitfalls of crowded bars and determined to avoid them. The space isn’t merely huge – it’s thoughtfully laid out. In addition to the long tables in the center of the room, there’s another set of tables with chairs instead of benches, a handful of pub tables if you’re standing, and shelves for your beer placed conveniently along the walls and on support posts. Could they have crammed even more tables in there? Sure. But they opted to leave plenty of room to maneuver, so if you’re cautiously shuttling three beers to your table, you won’t have to worry about stray elbows jostling your precious cargo.

And then there’s the bar.

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Pardon the limitations of my camera, but I’d need a wide-angle lens to capture even half of the mammoth bar, which looks to be slightly shorter than an airplane. I lost count of the number of chairs, but there’s no shortage of them; and the opposite side of the bar offers ample standing room. There are also multiple banks of beer taps, which minimizes waiting and lessens crowds gravitating to a single bartender. If you still need your personal space, there’s a second, smaller bar on the far end of the room.

Melissa and I, enjoying the benefits of our membership in the free “Friend of Harpoon” club, scored tickets to one of the Beer Hall’s pre-opening sessions this past week. The staff’s enthusiasm was both unmistakable and contagious. Bartenders, servers, and managers alike appeared happy to be working there, excited to finally have guests, and eager to talk about everything from the beer to the new addition to their brewery. It was a pleasure to share in the good vibes.

There are about 15 to 20 beers on tap, all Harpoon of course (as if you’d come here and order a Coors Light). If you’re a Harpoon lover, seeing this many varieties of their beer in one place is like a wet dream come true. Approaching the bar and seeing so many options I’d never tried, along with so many familiar classics, I found myself momentarily overwhelmed and settled on a Celtic Red.

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This has long been one of my favorite Harpoon offerings. It was traditionally a “spring seasonal” beer, but its release date seems to drifting further and further back into the winter months. In a way, that’s too bad; I always viewed its appearance in bars and liquor stores as a harbinger of spring. On the other hand, I’d be happy to drink this medium-bodied, amber-hued brew all year round.

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Mel went with the Coffee Porter, which the bartender noted was in short supply and rapidly dwindling. I’ve never been a big fan of coffee beers, which is ironic, given how much I drink of each beverage. But the coffee flavor was a little milder than what I’ve experienced with other brands, and Mel raved about it.

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Next up for me was the Leviathan Imperial IPA. With 10% ABV, it’s best to only have five or six of these bad boys in a session (I’m kidding! Three or four, tops.) I was expecting an overload of hops and the sharp, alcoholic sting that you often get with high ABV beers. I was pleasantly surprised; the hops were certainly prominent, but well balanced by a smooth malty essence, and it didn’t taste overly alcoholic.

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Mel’s next choice was the Harpoon Dark, formerly known as the Munich Dark. Our server, Nick, told us that this particular variety doesn’t sell well – in fact, it loses money. But brewers tend to be awfully fond of it, so Harpoon keeps cranking it out.

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I have to say, I was impressed to hear that. It makes me feel like if you’re a successful company and remain true to your vision, then sometimes passion for a product can trump the coldness of the bottom line. It feels like the triumph of principle over profit.

That same attitude would seem to explain the Beer Hall’s lack of a food menu. As staff members Aaron and Zack told me, Harpoon doesn’t want their Beer Hall to compete with nearby bars and restaurants, many of which serve Harpoon beer. “We want it to be the kind of place where you can have a couple of beers and a snack, then head out to dinner,” said Aaron. Fair enough.

The snack he referred to is the Beer Hall’s freshly baked soft pretzel. Now, believe it or not, I don’t care for pretzels (this tends to shock people; I get it). But this is no ordinary pretzel – it doesn’t even look like one, if you’re envisioning the typical twisted shape and dark brown dough.

If I'd known it was going to be so good, I'd have gotten a better shot of it before we tore into it.

Made from spent grain from the brewery and battered with Harpoon’s flagship IPA, it was the biggest, softest, most flavorful pretzel I’ve ever had. Warm out of the oven, it came with a grainy mustard and a thick peanut sauce that was so good I could eat it with a spoon.

Feeling renewed by the sustaining benefits that only a pretzel can provide, I moved onto Harpoon’s cider, which is always a treat to find on draft. My opinion of hard cider in general was pretty lukewarm until I tried Harpoon’s a few years back. Its fresh, natural flavor was a welcome change from the artificial sweetness I associated with other brands. (Is Cider Jack still around? God that stuff was disgusting.) Even Mel, no cider fan, enjoys Harpoon’s version. Our server, Nick, explained that their cider is made with apples grown in Harvard, Massachusetts, and contains no preservatives. Just apples and yeast, yielding a light, drinkable cider that’s not overly sweet.

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As the tasting session began drawing to a close, I hit the bar for one last round, again flummoxed by the options. Should I get the Rye IPA that everyone’s been raving about? But how could I not order the Czernobog, an imperial stout named after the Russian word for God of Darkness? Ultimately I left the decision to one of the bartenders, Jessica, who poured me a Black IPA. Instantly rendered intriguing by virtue of its being made with a malt called “Midnight Wheat,” the Black IPA also stands as proof that you can’t always judge a beer by its color. Despite its visual similarity to a stout or porter, it had the hop notes of an IPA and a surprising fruity aroma.

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It was a great recommendation by Jessica, and I never tire of helpful bartenders who know their beer and want to make sure you enjoy what you’re drinking. As another staff member told me, “the training here was great; they really encouraged us to try the beers and get to know them.”

No wonder everyone seems to like working here.

Last Call

Harpoon is a bona fide Boston institution. And one of the things I’ve always loved about this brewery – aside from the beer – is that despite its growth over the years, it’s maintained the character of a small, personal operation. Maybe that’s because I remember when Harpoon only made an IPA, and I got to watch as they expanded to seasonal varieties, complex specialty brews, even a cider. This wasn’t some multinational beer conglomerate opening a bottling plant in Boston one day, flooding the market with its product, and ramming marketing slogans down our throats. Harpoon started small, started here, and stayed local, even though their beers are now sold all over the country.

The Harpoon Brewery Beer Hall is just the latest step in that evolution. And while the space is grand, it remains humble of nature. It also remains a visitors’ center – there’s a gift shop to the left of the bar if you’re in the market for some Harpoon memorabilia, not to mention growlers and six packs of beer.

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As part of the Friend of Harpoon promotion, our first two beers were on the house. After that, I think I paid $5.75; pretty standard. That awesome pretzel was also complimentary with our tickets, so I don’t know how much it will set you back. And while I really respect Harpoon’s desire to not compete with their neighbors by serving food, I hope that philosophy changes someday. With all these great beers on draft, it seems like the perfect opportunity for food/beer pairings. But food or no, I can’t think of a better place to enjoy my favorite Boston beer.

Address: 306 Northern Avenue, Boston

Website: http://www.harpoonbrewery.com/

One for the Road – Still

“Speakeasy.”

The word evokes a sense of mystery, curiosity, and excitement, even today – a full eight decades after the curtains dropped on the farce that was Prohibition. Not that our enduring fascination with the notion of an illicit bar should be surprising; we are nothing if not drawn to the forbidden. And despite all you could do in 1920s America – especially new things, like buy a car, listen to jazz on the radio, go to work in a skyscraper – the decade is probably best remembered for what you could NOT do:  legally purchase an intoxicating beverage.

But the operative word there is “legally,” and as we all know, booze didn’t simply vanish upon passage of the amendment that banned it. It just went underground, melted into the shadows.

And plenty of people followed.

They heard through the grapevine that they could buy a drink in the storage room of a restaurant, in a members-only club, in the attic above what was once a bar, or in the basement of a private residence owned by an entrepreneurial, small-time criminal. They snuck into side doors in dark alleys, navigated dusty, cluttered hallways, dodged leaky pipes, and climbed rickety staircases. They rang a bell or knocked three times, whispered a password to a set of suspicious eyes through the sliding peephole of a locked door, and finally, were ushered into a room where they could join other former law-abiding citizens who had resorted to such complicated measures for the simple pleasure of enjoying a drink. It may have been in a luxurious space not far removed from the dignified drinking establishments that once proliferated, or a sparse room designated a “bar” by the mere presence of a table, a couple of chairs, and bottle of homemade hooch. Wherever it was, and whatever it looked like, no one talked very loudly or openly about it. And thus it came to be known as a speakeasy.

That the concept still captures our imagination is evidenced by the popularity of the speakeasy-style bars that have popped up all over the country in recent years. In New York, Milk & Honey only accepts customers by referral, and PDT (Please Don’t Tell) requires patrons to enter a phone booth in a hot dog joint and identify themselves before being allowed inside. Bourbon & Branch in San Francisco requires reservations and posts a code of conduct that urges discretion. More locally, Davis Square’s Saloon doesn’t go to such lengths; but its hard-to-find entrance and subterranean, windowless space engender an environment well suited to sipping highly refined, old-style cocktails.

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Like a lot of people, I love the idea of playing along, jumping through a few hoops, and imagining the days when ordering a drink was risky business. So I hope it doesn’t sound like a refusal to suspend my disbelief by pointing out that most of these bars conflate the trappings of 1920s-era “hidden” bars with the glamour of their legal predecessors. For starters, the drinks are good – like, really good. Saloon’s cocktails, for example, are impeccably crafted and often very traditional, made with the simple ingredients that characterized early 20th century libations. During Prohibition, by contrast, most people were drinking gut rot. New drink recipes incorporated multiple and heavy mixers to mask the terrible flavor of bootleg liquor that may well have been made in someone’s bathtub.

Eschewing cocktails made with adulterated and, not infrequently, poisonous booze is one sacrifice to authenticity that I think we’re all happy to make. But beyond that, a lot of these modern “speakeasies” are gorgeous. Like something you’d find in a really fancy, old-world hotel, with mahogany walls, ornate bars, burgundy carpets, and servers nattily attired in vests and ties.

Without doubt, there were speakeasies in the 1920s that maintained such an upscale appearance; some even required gentlemen to wear suits and ties. But most of them were considerably more modest. And that’s what gives Still, in Portsmouth, Virginia, a certain gritty authenticity that many of its Prohibition-themed peers lack.

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I was in Virginia over the holidays, visiting Melissa’s family, and certainly wasn’t going to pass on the opportunity to get another out-of-state post under my belt. Still came highly recommended (a certain reader out there might even own up to having badgered me to go), and with good reason. As we pulled onto a side street, I saw a sign for the bar atop of what appeared to be a side entrance. I walked around to the front of the building to look for the main entrance, only to discover that the side door was the only way in.

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Well played, Still.

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The door itself is nondescript, and with its small, barred window, looks entirely uninviting. All that was missing was a burly guy on the other side peeking through and demanding a password.

Beyond the door is everything you might expect to see in your typical 1920s speakeasy. Instead of plush furniture and old-world decadence, Still feels like a basement hastily converted into a makeshift bar, tidied up and made presentable enough for paying customers who were more interested in discretion than comfort. Luxury here only goes so far as a couple of easy chairs that look like they could have been commandeered from the average person’s living room. Forget hardwood floors and burgundy drapes; Still sports a concrete floor, low ceilings, and exposed support posts. Old-time jazz sets the mood, drywall and brick add to the effect, and shutters on the windows seem designed to repel prying eyes.

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A legal bar fashioned after an illegal one takes on an added layer of irony in Virginia, a state that once seemed all too eager to go dry. Virginia enacted its own liquor prohibition in 1916, and the experiment worked about as well as it did for the rest of the country four years later – which is to say, very poorly. The law was extremely unpopular, difficult to enforce, and easy to circumvent. Throughout the 1920s, Virginia saw the same Prohibition-related issues as the rest of the country – home distilleries churning out toxic liquor, speakeasies, corrupt law enforcement officials, shootouts between bootleggers and police. Complicating matters further was the state’s long shoreline, which presented miles of opportunity for smugglers.

Even after Prohibition ended, the good times were slow to get rollin’ in Virginia. Although the 21st amendment was ratified in 1933, serving liquor “by the glass” remained illegal in Virginia until 1968. That meant you could purchase bottles of alcohol at a state-run store, but you still couldn’t buy a mixed drink in a bar or restaurant.

Thankfully, times have changed, and at Still, you don’t have to worry about a Treasury official kicking in the door and shouting “This is a raid!” You can relax, admire the attention to historical detail, and most of all, enjoy a few drinks that are far superior to anything you would have choked down in an actual speakeasy.

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With a menu that organizes its drinks by type of glass, and a spirits list that distinguishes whiskey from whisky (many offerings from both), it’s pretty clear that Still has a healthy respect for cocktails poured properly. The drink list is loaded with classics that have by and large become scarce – Boilermakers, Gin Rickies, Amaretto Flips, Gibsons. The recipes themselves seem strictly traditional, adhering to the original conception of a cocktail – spirit, sugar, water, bitters, and little more. Still’s Manhattan, for instance, is made with rye whiskey, and their Old Fashioned isn’t a graveyard of muddled fruit.

Already in the right frame of mind, I happily settled in with Melissa, her cousin Mary, and Mary’s fiancé Gabe for an evening of classics – some famous, some forgotten, all delicious. I began with a Negroni – gin, sweet vermouth, Campari, and soda, with a lemon twist.

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This was my first ever Negroni, and Still’s version was well made and eminently drinkable. Unfortunately, it left me with the mistaken impression that I actually like Negronis. I ordered one at a different bar last weekend and quickly discovered that I loathe Campari, the intense flavor of which was mitigated somewhat by the soda in Still’s version. But I digress.

Mel tried ordering a Ramos Gin Fizz, but was told it would take a half-hour to prepare; apparently there’s some egg white in there that requires a whole lotta shakin’. She opted instead for a Tangerine Burst, a mix of Finlandia tangerine vodka, lemon juice, Chambord, and champagne. Arriving in considerably less time than the gin fizz would have, the first three ingredients gave it an intriguing fruity flavor, while the champagne kept the drink from being overly sweet.

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Gabe opted for a Sazerac. Unsurprisingly, Still kept close to the traditional composition of this New Orleans-based classic – Bourbon, Peychaud bitters, sugar cube, and water, in an absinthe-rinsed glass.

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Mary’s Sidecar was a potent blend of sweet and sour – brandy, Cointreau, and lemon juice. The origins of this fine drink are the subject of fierce debate, with bartenders on two continents taking credit for both the composition and the inspiration for the name. Regardless, it’s an old drink, and it requires a deft hand to properly balance the flavors. Still’s version was splendid.

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One of the best things about a bar like this is that it gives you the opportunity to try some venerable cocktails that you’ve heard of but have fallen by the wayside. Like a Rob Roy.

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A Rob Roy is similar to my favorite cocktail, the Manhattan, except it’s made with scotch instead of rye or bourbon. That sounded good to me, and sure enough, this stodgy old chap was drier than its more famous cousin, with a rich, smoky essence.

If cocktails aren’t your thing, Still offers a respectable selection of eight draft beers, most of which are local microbrews. There’s a broader list of bottled craft beers, and I was pleased to see that Boston’s own Harpoon made the list with its Leviathan Imperial IPA. I went with the O’Connor El Guapo IPA, if for no other reason than my amusement at the interesting mix of nationalities reflected in the name.

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Gabe went with Still’s eponymous beer, which was pretty basic and pretty good.

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Still breaks most dramatically from its historical reverie with its food menu. It probably goes without saying that if an underground bar even served food, it was most likely crapola. Speakeasies definitely didn’t serve tapas. But that’s what you’ll find at Still, which characterizes its food as “worldly eclectic tapas.” We didn’t eat here, which is too bad; I’m sure the duck tacos and mixed game sausage “trilogy” would have made for good blogging fodder. And I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I neglected to order Still’s apple tart, made with bourbon, bacon, maple, and cider caramel.

Don’t suppose I could blame it on the effects of bootleg liquor?

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Our 1920s forebears would be nonplussed by our desire to celebrate and imitate a practice that was, in reality, tiresome, dangerous, and of course, illegal. But human nature being what it is, it’s fun to be in on a secret, and there’s a certain thrill to be had in, say, ducking behind a bookcase and giving someone a password to get into an exclusive, hush-hush bar. I suppose it helps when you don’t actually have to worry about being ensnared in a liquor raid.

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Any theme-heavy bar like Still runs the risk of being written off as a novelty unless it has substance; fortunately, Still’s drinks are the real deal. And a place like this ensures that even when old cocktails fall out of fashion, they don’t completely disappear. I mean, I don’t know anyone, let alone someone my age, who’s ever walked into a garden-variety bar and ordered a Rob Roy. But I feel richer for having had the chance to do so.

The prices here are considerably more affordable than in Boston, though not as cheap as the $0.50 you might have plunked down for a drink in a genuine speakeasy. The cocktails we got ranged from $6.50 to $9.50, and only the elusive Ramos Gin Fizz goes as high as $10 (probably to dissuade you from making the poor bartender shake it for 30 minutes). Beers are about $6.50, on average.

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The folks behind Still certainly take their drinks seriously, but they have a lot of fun with their 1920s theme. They host cool events that give you a reason to dust off your fedora or flapper duds, like an End of Prohibition Party and a St. Valentine’s Day Massacre Party (a rather gruesome event to celebrate, but proof that anything can be used as an occasion to raise a glass). Maybe they go a little over the top in trying to make the place look really old – like with exposed iron pipes that, upon closer inspection, are just plastic PVC pipes painted in an orange-gold hue. But the point is to have fun, and theme or no theme, Still is a pretty casual place in which to enjoy a very well-made drink.

And that’s something we should never take for granted.

Website: http://www.stilleats.com/

Address: 450 Court Street, Portsmouth, Virginia

Hendrick's Gin – The Delightfully Peculiar Cocktail Academy

My dad used to receive bottles of liquor as gifts, typically around the holidays. But as a beer drinker who eschewed hard liquor, he had no use for them. He kept them anyway, though, in a cardboard box in the basement; and as a dutiful son who didn’t want his parents’ cellar to become overly cluttered, I kindly took the entire box off their hands at some point when I was in college. There were some valuable things in there, like a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, and a couple of mysterious black bottles of cognac, which I still have.

There was also gin. A LOT of gin.

If memory serves, there were two bottles of Tanqueray and three bottles of Beefeater – two enormous ones (the square kind, with the handle) and a more manageable 750-milliliter bottle.

That might sound like a gold mine for a poor college student who enjoyed a cocktail once in a while, but there was one problem – I didn’t really care for gin. I found it to be harsh and unforgiving. And given the infrequency with which I drank it, I suddenly found myself with pretty much a lifetime supply of the stuff. Those bottles followed me through college, grad school, three new jobs, and at least six different residences.

Finally, about two years ago, I decided enough was enough ­– the gin had to go. And since it runs counter to my programming to simply dump usable liquor down the drain, I was going to have to get rid of it the hard way.

So I declared gin and tonic to be my official drink of the spring and summer and embarked on a boozy tour de force: A gin and tonic after work. Sometimes one before work. A gin and tonic and a good book. A gin and tonic while watching the Sox. A gin and tonic on the front porch. A gin and tonic on a midsummer night’s eve. A picnic with a thermos full of gin and tonic. Gin and tonics on the beach. A flask of gin and tonic at church (kidding! I never go to church).

Slowly, the tide began turning. Bottle after spent bottle would land in the recycling bucket with a satisfying thunk, and as the days of summer got shorter and shorter, I could see victory within my shaky grasp.

And then, a cruel and unexpected twist! A friend of mine was moving across the country and opted not to take the contents of his liquor cabinet, donating to me the remnants of his collection – which contained (you guessed it) another full bottle of Beefeater gin. And thus the spring and summer of gin and tonic stretched into the fall and, inevitably, winter of gin and tonic.

Gin was one stubborn bastard, as I learned; but so was I. And then a funny thing happened – I actually started liking the stuff. That harsh, piney liquor that initially reminded me of a cleaning product gradually revealed its merits, and eventually we put aside our differences.

Of course, learning to appreciate gin is a lot easier when you submit to the talents of creative bartenders who skillfully mix it into things other than just tonic water. And as I sampled drinks like the Tres Curieux at Marliave, the luscious Greed at Church, and the Vesper Martini at the Gaff, among many others, I noticed they weren’t made with Beefeater, or Tanqueray, or even Bombay Sapphire. It seemed the gin of choice among Boston’s best mixologists was Hendrick’s.

So I started asking for Hendrick’s in my drinks when given the opportunity, and while I’m no gin aficionado, I could tell there was something different about it. It seemed gentler and more approachable than other gin brands. Turns out there’s actually a lot about this gin that distinguishes it from its peers – as I learned a few weeks ago, when I attended a Hendrick’s-sponsored “Cocktail Academy.”

Hendrick’s is a small batch gin made by William Grant & Sons, the same distillers that own Tullamore Dew, among other fine intoxicating liquors. Their gin-soaked road show, the Cocktail Academy, has been stopping in major U.S. cities over the past couple of years as part of William Grant’s aggressive American marketing campaign. It’s a way to spread the word about Hendrick’s while teaching attendees to whip up a few gin-based cocktails under the tutelage of a Hendrick’s brand ambassador.

“Timeless Tipples Worth Toasting” was the subject of the Cocktail Academy’s third stop in the Boston area, led by an affable brand ambassador named Jim Ryan. Held at Catalyst, a very cool bar in Cambridge’s Kendall Square, the event was a laid-back clinic in gin mixology.

About 20 of us settled into a conference room with long wooden tables, each with place settings outfitted with all the supplies we’d need – a lemon press, weighted spoon, jigger, two Collins glasses, and a tumbler; lemons and cucumbers; simple syrup, soda, green tea, and elderflower liqueur (aka St. Germain); and of course, a bottle of Hendrick’s gin. There was also a helm full of ice. Yes, a helm.

As we settled in with passed hors d’oeuvres and complimentary gin and tonics (any class that starts off with a free drink is going to be a good one, regardless of the subject matter), Jim regaled us with the history of Hendrick’s and, more importantly, what makes it such a unique spirit, from its botanical signature – a chorus of 11 different fruits, roots, and flowers – to its distillation in two separate stills, to its pièce de résistance: an infusion of cucumber and rose petals.

It seems only fitting that an exceptional gin should emerge from such unusual origins. Hendrick’s is one of the only gin distilleries in Scotland. It’s housed in a converted WWI-era munitions factory that the William Grant company purchased in 1960s, around the same time that it bought two very rare stills. The first, made of a thick copper, is a traditional pot still built in 1860 by Bennet, Sons & Shears. The second is called a Carter-Head still, built in 1948; only a few are known to exist in the world.

Now, why purchase two antique stills? To show off in front of all the other gin distillers? Maybe; but after the stills were restored to proper working order, they both came to play key roles in the production of Hendrick’s Gin.

The stills yield two dramatically different spirits. In the Bennet still, botanicals are added to the liquid and boiled, producing an oily, concentrated gin distillate with a rich, robust flavor. In the Carter-Head, by contrast, the distillers place the botanicals in a basket at the top of this still, through which the alcohol vapors pass, extracting the sweeter and more delicate essences of the flowers and roots. Hendrick’s then combines the spirits produced by both stills, which is pretty much unheard of.

The result is a gin with an entirely unique flavor profile. It seems softer than other gins, yet more complex; that’s on account of its unusual botanical signature. While most gins incorporate a handful of fruits and flowers, Hendrick’s loads up with a whopping 11 botanicals – lemon peel, orange peel, coriander, chamomile, juniper, Angelica root, cubeb berry, elderflower, meadowsweet, caraway seeds, and Orris root. The exact proportions are a closely guarded secret known only to three or four people, but it’s clear that the juniper – a necessary component any gin, and the ingredient responsible for gin’s distinctive pine-like taste – is dialed back a bit. That alone might make Hendrick’s a bit more accessible to someone wary of gin.

But wait, there’s more! Once it’s all distilled, cucumber and rose petals are added, giving Hendrick’s a remarkably fresh flavor up front. This is why a cucumber is preferred to the more traditional citrus as a garnish for Hendrick’s-based drinks.

As the history lesson drew to a close, it was time to learn how to make some cocktails. First up was an elderflower cooler – gin, elderflower liqueur, simple syrup, and soda, served in a Collins glass. Essentially a St. Germain cocktail made with Hendrick’s in place of champagne, this was crisp, light, and summery. St. Germain plays very well with Hendrick’s, since elderflower is one of the botanicals used in the distillation process, and the brightness of the flavor balanced the dryness of the gin. Our class may have been taking place on a cold December evening, but sipping the elderflower cooler gave me visions of relaxing on my front porch on a June evening.

My warm-weather reverie continued with the next cocktail. Even before we made them, the cucumber lemonade sounded like a heavenly match – the cool, refreshing flavor of cucumber and the zing of a lemon. The recipe called for gin, the juice of one lemon, simple syrup, soda, and a long slice of cucumber, with an optional lemon garnish. Sure enough, it was a dry, refreshing cocktail with just enough sweetness and a only slight tartness. The lemon juice activated the lemon peel in the gin, and the resulting flavor, complemented by the cucumber, was strong but not overpowering.

The last drink was called a tenured punch, and this was a group project. Jim explained to us that, a couple centuries ago, punch preceded the notion of a single-serving cocktail. It was very communal; having a punch with guests meant you were sharing an experience. In that sense, it was an appropriate way to round out the class; there’s no “gin” in team, but there was only one punch bowl per table, and everyone at the table had to work together to make the punch.

We threw pretty much everything we had in there – gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, sparkling water, green tea, Lillet Blanc, Angostura bitters, and cucumber and lemon slices as garnishes, all poured over a massive block of ice. The tea was the most interesting component; according to Jim, it “stretches” the punch out, helping you avoid overpouring the liquors.

I don’t know about you, but when I think about punch, I imagine something overly fruity, loaded up with cheap liquors and bunch of mixers. The Hendrick’s tenured punch challenged that notion, to say the least. I would call it a rather dignified punch, the pinnacle of knowing how good flavors mix in large quantities as opposed to haphazardly pouring a bunch of ingredients into a bowl and giggling about how much alcohol you put in (I mean, not that I’ve ever…).

What’s more, no individual component of the punch was particularly obvious; I couldn’t really taste the tea, nor did the citrus or even the gin stand out. The flavor was truly greater than the sum of its parts.

The only disappointment of the night was discovering that the table of Hendrick’s gift bags did not, in fact, contain complimentary bottles of Hendrick’s.

But the mere fact that I would have welcomed a full bottle of gin made me realize how far I’d come from my earlier skepticism of the spirit. And that’s exactly the kind of epiphany that the Hendrick’s people would like everyone to have. While gin distilleries aren’t exactly hurting for cash, gin doesn’t enjoy anything close to the global sales of other spirits, like vodka or whiskey. Vodka, for instance, is eminently marketable; with its neutral flavor, it can be mixed with just about anything, and distilleries can appeal to younger drinkers with products like Swedish Fish or Whipped Cream flavored vodka (and yes, both exist). It’s harder to portray gin as the life of the party; it tends to be seen as a stuffy liquor, something preferred by an older crowd.

William Grant is fighting that perception, trying to broaden gin’s appeal and put it in the cocktails and liquor cabinets of a younger population. So they designed a wildly colorful website and host events like the Cocktail Academy at trendy bars, trying to show people that the range of gin drinks is considerably broader than just martinis and gin and tonics. In other words, gin can party with the best of ‘em.

It even looks cooler than other gins. The Hendrick’s bottle, wide and round, is modeled after an old apothecary jar, hearkening back to the days when gin was used medicinally. During the class, Jim joked that Hendrick’s designed the bottle to make it as difficult as possible for a bartender to pour. (Somewhere, a bartender is not laughing at this.)

Of course, all the clever marketing in the world would be wasted if the product wasn’t up to snuff, but that’s not an issue here. Hendrick’s has taken home a plethora of awards over the past 10 years, even being declared the “Best Gin in the World” by the Wall Street Journal. And while you’ll never see a bubble gum-flavored gin on a store shelf (thank GOD), Hendrick’s manages to give the spirit as much of as twist as possible with its cucumber and rose infusion.

Maybe a gin purist would quibble with the softer complexion of Hendrick’s or the post-distillation flavoring (which renders it not a “London dry gin” but a “distilled gin”; oh, the humanity). But appealing to a new audience of drinkers requires a little innovation and a lot of fresh thinking. Hendrick’s employs both to great effect, and the result is a surprisingly approachable gin that can respectably stand among the classics.

In other words, an old spirit for a new generation.

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Copyright © Boston BarHopper. All Rights Reserved.

The First Annual Boston BarHopper Christmas Special

When I was a kid, going into Boston seemed kind of like a big deal. That was where dad worked, and where the Sox and the Celtics and the Bruins played, and where the governor lived. I grew up about 20 miles north of Boston. That’s not prohibitively far from the city, but going there still felt like a special occasion. Everything in Boston just seemed bigger, faster, more special, more important. The tall buildings, the fast pace, the busy subway, the constant barrage of sounds – those things are fascinating to a child.

So you can probably imagine – actually, some of you might remember – how exhilarating it was, as a kid, to visit Boston during the holiday season. I vividly recall those occasions when my family and I would head into town for a day of Christmas shopping, and what a feast it was for the senses.

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The city, already imbued with a sense of majesty, seemed suddenly and impossibly grander. The Christmas spirit was in the air – you could see it in the huge department stores in Downtown Crossing and the small shops on Charles Street. You could hear it in the ever-present Christmas music in the stores or outside, played by street musicians or the occasional vocal group, decked out in gay apparel. You could smell it when you walked by a food vendor selling hot treats on a bitterly cold day. And when night fell, the lights clicked on and bathed the city in a wintry glow. The colored bulbs on the trees in Boston Common, the warm glimmer from store windows, and a skyline dotted by the illuminated windows of skyscrapers conspired to weave a tapestry of Yuletide splendor. It felt like the entire city was in full holiday swing.

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And while that sense of celebration seemed, in my young eyes, to extend to every block of Boston, no area of the city better encapsulated the magic of the season than Faneuil Hall. Just approaching it felt special – you could see lights on the horizon and hear all sorts of commotion.

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And when you got there, it was just as good as you imagined. There were impossibly tall Christmas trees, big green wreaths with red bows hanging in store windows, and holiday classics playing on loudspeakers. Ordinary trees became extraordinary when draped with white lights. When it got too cold, we’d go inside, where – behold! – the promise of a hot chocolate awaited, and the warmth would refresh us as we perused carts selling keepsakes or squeezed through the crowded, narrow hallway lined with food vendors.

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For me, all the elements of Faneuil Hall in December combined to bring Christmas alive in a manner that went beyond Santa Claus, talking snowmen, and flying reindeer. In a way, this was real-life magic. I must have cultivated an idyllic image of a Victorian-era Christmas, maybe from reading or seeing “A Christmas Carol” in my most formative years. Because something about the bricks and cobblestones of this centuries-old marketplace infused color, sound, and texture into a deeply embedded impression of a snowy night in 19th century London, passersby greeting each other as they navigated gaslit streets, arms full of brown paper packages tied up with string. I felt like I was witnessing the reenactment of a profoundly old tradition, and it was absolutely thrilling to be part of it.

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I’m all grown up now, whether I act like it or not. I still love the holiday season, but these days it means finding time for shopping, deciding on the right gifts, paying for it all, dueling for parking spots at crowded malls, coordinating travel plans, having my triumph at finishing my shopping doused when I remember at the last minute that I need something for the office party, bugging people for their addresses, mailing gifts, sending cards, coming up with holiday cocktails, and telling people what size I wear in a sweater (medium) or jeans (32/32, but keep the receipt). And that’s on top of everyday stuff, like working a full-time job, writing blog posts, and answering BBH fan mail. All while the mercury plummets to bone-chilling temperatures.

The city, where I spend 60+ hours a week, doesn’t possess quite the same holiday mystique that it held I was a kid. Sure, I still notice the decorations and hear the songs, but most of the time I’m walking to work and thinking about the day ahead, or dashing for the train, trying to get home. Always somewhere to be.

But this post isn’t about growing up and becoming jaded, with some clichéd moral about taking time to stop and smell the Christmas trees. It’s about one area of the city that, despite the passing years and my diminished ability to believe in magic, still manages to fill me with a sense of wonder.

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In some respects, it might seem odd to assign Faneuil Hall such an elevated status. Christmas is too commercial as it is, and Faneuil Hall is pretty much just a bunch of stores, few of which are interesting or unique. It’s also a five-minute walk from my office, so for me, making a trip there isn’t exactly novel. And it’s mostly tourist-driven; I seldom need a Boston sweatshirt, a stuffed lobster, or a snow globe of the State House, and I’m certainly never going to Cheers.

Yet I still get excited when I walk across Government Center and see those lights in the distance. I don’t know – maybe it’s because standing in front of that mammoth Christmas tree makes me feel tiny, but I walk into Faneuil Hall and can’t help feeling like a kid again.

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Of course, as an adult, my tastes have expanded beyond that hot chocolate I used to look forward to. So with that in mind, I took a whirl around Faneuil Hall in search of some seasonal cocktails that can warm your bones on a cold winter night, give you a boost when your holiday shopping expedition loses steam, or just serve as a reward after a long day of rockin’ around the Christmas tree.

Ames Plow Tavern has always been an underrated favorite of mine. It’s down a flight of stairs and there are no windows, making it a convenient hideaway whenever you feel the need to block out the noise and crowds. Ames Plow is a cozy basement bar that’s always a pleasure to drink in, and the Christmas lights on the back wall add a little holiday cheer. The $3 PBRs are a year-round attraction, but on a chilly night, try the spiked hot apple cider made with vanilla vodka and cinnamon schnapps. If your shopping trip needs a quick jolt, this will do the trick.

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Once you’re sufficiently recharged, walking up those stairs and reemerging into Faneuil Hall’s Yuletide radiance will make you feel festive all over again.

Upstairs from Ames Plow is that sprawling all-purpose bar, Ned Devine’s. Ned’s is all decked out for the season, and even though they don’t offer much in terms of holiday-themed cocktails, it’s a festive atmosphere for drinking a winter brew.

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When I stopped in last week, it seemed like the right time to have my first Sam Adams Winter Lager of the season. This sturdy classic with wintry spices will help fortify you against the chill outdoors.

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Despite the modern-day corporate nature of Faneuil Hall, it’s still possible to feel its sense of history. And as I said before, that’s a little easier this time of year, when the place looks like the front of a greeting card. What better occasion, then, to check out a true Boston classic – Durgin Park.

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I’m not sure whether I’d ever been to this Boston landmark; honestly, I can’t imagine going there unless I had a guest who’d never been to Massachusetts and demanded a taste of traditional New England. But the bar area, comfortable and well worn, is a very pleasant surprise, and Christmas lights add a festive air. The drink options are pretty straightforward, but they do have a cocktail that seems seasonal enough – the Johnny Apple Cider. This mix of Smirnoff Kissed Caramel vodka, sour apple schnapps, and triple sec isn’t a hot drink like the one at Ames Plow, but it still hits the spot and captures the flavors of fall and winter.

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Finally, Anthem provides for one of the classier and more upscale drinking experiences in Faneuil Hall. In terms of holiday décor, Christmas lights strung along the dark wood walls and behind the bar are festive and playful, but the candles on the bar evoke a quieter, more intimate holiday atmosphere. Anthem has several seasonal options to choose from, and I started with the elegant ginger fizz – G’Vine gin, ginger cognac, and prosecco. Dry and bubbly, the ginger flavor permeated the drink but remained soft and subtle.

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The undisputed hit of my holiday drinking tour, though, was Anthem’s mulled cider. Made with Domaine de Canton ginger cognac and hot mulled cider, topped with homemade whipped cream, this is quite possibly the most satisfying winter cocktail I’ve ever had.

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Warm, creamy, and delicious, it’s a well-conceived drink perfectly suited to a cold December night. I think I’ll stop in and see whether they’re still serving it in January. And February…

No matter how many times you’ve been there, Boston’s most famous tourist attraction is still worth a pre-Christmas visit – especially if you need something to take the edge off or simply want to toast the holidays. After all, this may be the most wonderful time of the year, but it can also be the most stressful. So swing by, enjoy the lights, and treat yourself to a cup of cheer.

Even if it’s the kind you drank when you were a kid.

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A Holiday Cocktail

I’m often tempted to break up my bar reviews with the occasional short post devoted to making a particular cocktail at home. Not that I have anything profound to contribute to the world of mixology. I just figure it would serve as a nice change of pace and give me a chance to talk about some of my favorite drinks or share a recipe for something original. The reason I always talk myself out of the idea is because, over the course of the past 9 or 10 months, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting some highly accomplished bartenders who have clearly worked hard to perfect their craft. I have the utmost respect for those individuals who have spent countless hours learning how different ingredients complement each other, interact with one another, and combine to make a unique cocktail. The kind of drink that, yes, might get you buzzed, but will also prompt you to take notice of the flavors and appreciate the thoughtful composition.

My fear is that if I put my own concoctions on the blog, then regardless of how many qualifiers or disclaimers I include, it will look like I’m putting my drinks on the same level as the talented mixologists I write about. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But I’d rather focus on the work of people who do this for a living than on amateur cocktail hour at the Boston BarHopper headquarters.

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This week, I’m making an exception. A fellow blogger, Erika, who runs the excellent Beautiful Life and Style site, asked a few other bloggers to submit their holiday-themed cocktail recipes for a post she was writing. I was honored to be invited and excited to participate.

Given the occasion, I wanted to make a special drink. Something decadent and desserty, with flavors that recalled the season; the kind of thing you’d only make this time of year. After a week or so of mixing, matching, making my ingredient list, checking it twice, sipping, pacing, and sipping again, I settled on what in bartending parlance would be called a Frangelico flip. But I call it the Hazelnutcracker.

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This simple recipe yields a creamy, frothy, nutty drink that you can reward yourself with after a long day of Christmas shopping, wrapping presents, sending greeting cards, rigging up the lights, what have you. It calls for a raw egg, which tends to make people a little squeamish. An egg was not uncommon in older cocktail recipes, but over time it became something of a lost art. I’ve been seeing it more frequently in recent years, as mixologists revisit classic concoctions like fizzes and flips. It contributes a meringue-like creaminess that, unlike milk or cream, doesn’t weigh the cocktail down. Still skeptical? Just use a fresh egg (organic if that’s the way you roll), shake well, and you’ll be fine. Adding a little extra alcohol can’t hurt, either. Plus, I downed enough raw eggs to make Rocky blush while I was testing this bad boy, and I lived to write the blog post.

Here are the ingredients:

One large brown egg.

2 ounces Frangelico (if the holiday stress is really getting to you, throw in a little vanilla vodka).

Nutmeg.

Crack the egg into a shaker. Shake vigorously for at least one minute; your egg should look thick and frothy. Add the Frangelico and four or five ice cubes. Shake again, for at least another minute; frost should form on the exterior of the shaker.

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Strain into a glass. Sprinkle with nutmeg, and use a stirrer or straw to swirl the nutmeg on the surface.

I also tried this with a few variations before settling on the final recipe. The coffee flavor of Kahlua nicely accompanies the hazelnut, but it spoils the texture. Bailey’s works with the soft, frothy texture, but it completely dominates the flavor, rendering it a large glass of Bailey’s (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing). As mentioned above, vanilla vodka is the best addition, if you feel like it needs something more. I tried one version with all of the aforementioned liqueurs, but when I thought I heard reindeer clopping around on the roof, I knew I’d overdone it. Ultimately, the Frangelico by itself allows for a warm, nutty flavor that needs no further accompaniment.

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The Hazelnutcracker is best enjoyed on a snowy night in front of an open fire, with the holiday jazz stylings of the Vince Guaraldi Trio providing a peaceful, happy soundtrack.

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It might also help take the edge off when the magic of your Christmas celebration gives way to the powerful lungs of young children or the vocal political opinions of relatives. (If things really take a turn, you can just say the raw eggs didn’t agree with you and excuse yourself; it’s a very useful drink.)

You should also check out Beautiful Life and Style if you have a chance. It’s a lovely site, and in the same post that I contributed to, you’ll find three other tempting seasonal drinks. Despite my week of nightly cocktails, I couldn’t resist trying two of them (I’d have made the third, too, but I didn’t have the ingredients). There’s nothing like a hot, potent drink to help you shake off the winter chill, and this Hot Buttered Cider did the trick.

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The Yule Mule offered a tasty, festive twist on a Moscow Mule.

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You’ll have to follow the link for the recipes, and you’ll be glad you did.

Thanks again to Erika of Beautiful Life and Style for coming up with such a fun idea. I wonder if Santa would bring me a new liver…

The Gaff

One of my most depressing bar experiences occurred a few years ago when I met my friend Brian on Moody Street in Waltham for a few drinks and what we’d hoped would be an engaging game of billiards. A simple plan – and one that would have been more feasible were there a pool hall in the area. Determined to not let such a mere technicality diminish the promise of our evening, Brian and I made our way to Robert’s Pub & Grub, a small dive bar that, despite its ramshackle appearance, was supposedly in possession of a pool table. (I cannot say with confidence that that was its actual name; it was also known as Robert’s Restaurant and Bar, and Robert’s Grub, Pub and Pool. The bar has since passed into shadow, and I cannot confirm its true moniker.) Stepping into Robert’s on that particular Saturday evening was like entering a funeral parlor; a somber organist would not have been out of place. Brian and I were the only two souls in there, aside from the bartender, who looked surprised to see us. In the very strictest sense, Robert’s did have what qualified as a pool table…but it was more like the ghost of a pool table. Its faded green felt had accommodated too many damp beer bottles over the years, had had too many drunken players scrape their pool cues across it. Brian and I stuffed a few quarters into the slot, and out rolled 13 balls (for those of you counting at home, that’s two short of a full set, not including the cue ball).

The drumbeat of indignities continued. The pool cues were so warped, we would have been better served by going outside and looking for a couple of sticks or fallen tree branches and playing with those. And the table was crammed into a space that was only slightly larger than the table itself; the walls were so close that for some shots, you had to hold your cue or tree branch at a 45 degree angle.

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As we began a game with hastily modified rules, I went to the bar to see what they had on draft. “We just have bottles,” the bartender said, before I even asked. “Bud Light and Coors Light.”

On the plus side, Robert’s did have a good jukebox, in proper working order. And there was no wait for the pool table.

I don’t bring up the now-defunct Robert’s simply for the purpose of kicking its corpse. Rather, I offer it as an example of the kind of establishment that once characterized Moody Street.

If you’re new to the area, that might come as a surprise to you. But Moody Street, and downtown Waltham in general, has seen its share of highs and lows over the years. Moody Street was a happenin’ place back in the 1940s and 1950s. There were department stores, movie theaters, dance halls, and an overall a lively vibe.  That began changing in the 70s when shopping malls started popping up, attracting most of the stand-alone businesses, and leaving Moody Street a ghost town of vacancies and dives like Robert’s. Not exactly a destination.

But the Waltham City Council stepped in and took steps to revitalize the area, and gradually, signs of life began returning to Moody. Lizzy’s started churning out homemade ice cream, Watch City Brewing started churning out original craft beer, and customers started returning. The Embassy Cinema opened, new businesses refurbished old buildings, and Moody Street began evolving into the bustling center of diversion and diversity that it is today.

And no establishment better epitomizes Moody’s transition from its moribund past to its vibrant present than the Gaff.

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Handsome, distinguished, but casual, the Gaff is a modern bar with classic charm and a genuine sense of character. Having recently celebrated its third anniversary, the Gaff is still a relative newcomer to Moody Street – yet it feels much older. The crisp black and white color scheme, with beautiful dark wood and a light-colored hardwood floor, look brand new and well cared for, but its personality is more akin to that of its longer-tenured peers. Maybe it’s the classic, throwback cocktails they make so well. Or maybe it’s the laid-back, personable staff who seem kind of like next-door neighbors. It just feels like a new bar with very deep roots.

The Gaff is a cozy little place. There are two comfortable and highly coveted leather couches by a large window that looks out onto Moody Street; a bar with 15 chairs that aren’t as uncomfortable as they look, despite their odd, short seatbacks; and about six small tables. The “Local Art Gallery,” a series of framed black-and-white photos on the wall, contributes to the ambience, and a large chalkboard details the Gaff’s extensive and ever-shifting selection of microbrews.

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My most recent visit to the Gaff was with Melissa and Kelly on that traditional must-go-out-for-drinks night, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We got there around 6:30 and beat the crowd, snagging three seats at the bar. A bowl of free popcorn appeared, much to Melissa’s delight, and we casually began perusing the drink options.

I’ve always been deeply impressed with the Gaff’s beer list; having Gritty’s Black Fly Stout on draft was what initially lured me in several years ago. But a Boston mixologist whose opinion I hold in high regard urged me to check out their cocktails, and I’m glad I did – their drinks are absolutely a cut above everything else in the vicinity. There are faithful classics, smart updates of traditional cocktails, and more than a few contemporary innovations.

I began my night with a sazerac. Made with Old Overholt rye whiskey, Pernod, simple syrup, and Peychaud’s bitters, the Gaff’s version remains true to the celebrated New Orleans cocktail. I…might have gotten a second one.

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Melissa opted for a Wild Night Out – tequila with pomegranate liqueur, freshly squeezed lime, and club soda. Mel said it was pretty good, but didn’t blow her away; or maybe she just wasn’t ready for a wild night out.

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Kelly outdid both of us with her Vesper Martini. A cocktail that James Bond would surely approve of, this mix of Hendricks gin, Ketel One vodka, and Lillet Blanc was dry and elegant.

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As the Thanksgiving Eve crowd began trickling in, we sipped our drinks and took a look at the food menu. The Gaff offers a broad array of comfort food that goes beyond the basic bar staples like wings and nachos. We started with fried pickles – or, as they’re called on the menu, “frickles.” We placed our order and then proceeded to gleefully repeat “frickles” among ourselves for the next five minutes. (You know you’re saying it in your head right now.) Hand-breaded, deep-fried, and served with ranch for dipping, they made for a light start to our evening.

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If the frickles (frickles! frickles!) were amusing, the cherry bombs were intriguing. Melissa wondered aloud what exactly constituted a cherry bomb, and the bartender, who apparently has bat-like hearing, swooped in and said they deep fried cherry peppers with cheese, accompanied by a sweet chili sauce for dipping. He described their heat as being similar to that of jalapeño poppers. I’m not sure what kind of poppers he’s been popping, but these babies were intense. He later confessed to being a lover of really spicy food and preferring his Gaff wings with “atomic” sauce, so his barometer might have been somewhat skewed. They were tasty nonetheless, and quickly resolved any sinus issues we may have been experiencing.

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Like the appetizer menu, the dinner options offer time-honored bar basics with some modern twists – like the avocado dog. Only a chef with a solid appreciation of irony would take something as nutritionally maligned as a hot dog and pair it with an avocado. Needless to say, my mind was quickly made up. A quarter-pound hot dog with bacon, caramelized onions, and avocado, served with fries, it was delicious. And healthy! (The avocado makes it healthy; this is known.)

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Kelly opted for the Gaff burger, topped with bacon, cheddar, and a fried egg over easy. She’d never had an egg on a burger and was a little unsure about the concept; but the bartender allayed her fears, and I recounted how I’d had something similar at the Intermission Tavern and that she was in for a treat. (I left out the fact that the volume of food would probably render her groggy.)

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Our appetites satiated, we turned our attention back to drinks. All tuckered out from her Wild Night Out, Melissa opted for a glass of sangria, which the Gaff spruces up with tequila, St. Germaine, and pineapple juice.

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Kelly got a Moscow Mule, which was well made and served in a classy copper cup that reminded me of my experience at Stoddard’s.

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If the cocktails, excellent as they are, fly under the radar, it’s because the Gaff’s beer list gets most of the attention. And justifiably so – with about 20 beers on tap and many more in bottles and cans, the Gaff boasts one of the best selections outside of Boston. They offer an extensive and varied selection of microbrews, along with plenty of old favorites.

First up for me was Kentucky Bourbon Ale. I’ve been hooked on this slow-sippin’ beer since I first tried it at the Tip Tap Room, and I was excited that the Gaff had it on tap. I followed that up with the lighter High & Mighty Beer of the Gods.

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As if the beer selection wasn’t already stellar, the Gaff also has a cask option. Cask conditioned beers are uncommon enough in Boston, let alone outside the city. The cask beer while we were there was Haverhill Commuter Ale, which Kelly got.

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By 9 p.m., Thanksgiving Eve at the Gaff was in full swing. I found myself reflecting on how much I like the place and how happy I am that it’s so been successful. I’m further glad that Moody Street itself has grown into a neighborhood that maintains a sense of character. It could just as easily have become overrun with bland chains like Applebee’s. Instead it’s populated mostly by independently owned businesses, the way it was back in its glory days. The result is an eclectic mix of cocktail bars, Irish pubs, tapas restaurants, ethnic grocery stores, retail shops, sports bars…and yes, a few divey relics of the 70s and 80s. But those humble, townie bars that remain simply represent more choices in an area with tremendous variety. And it’s good to have a few of those places; as I learned when Sadie’s shut its saloon doors, it can be hard to say goodbye to some of them.

Maybe that’s what inspired Kelly and me to close out our night with a couple of classics.

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Old beers in a new bar – one that helps chart a new direction for Moody Street while honoring its past.

Last Call

Maybe my perception is influenced by the pictures on the Gaff’s Facebook page of the new owners demoing the previous site and building a new bar, but this place feels like someone’s pride and joy. I get the sense that it’s a product of original ideas and a lot of elbow grease – not some prefabricated bar or restaurant assembled overnight by a soulless corporation. It feels very personal.

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Nowhere is that pride of having built a successful bar from ground up more evident than in the enthusiasm of the staff. They get excited about getting a new beer on draft. They get excited about their fun regular events, like nights devoted to 80s music, soul music, and trivia, along with periodic comedy and open mic nights. And I don’t know exactly what constitutes the Gaff’s “midweek drinkers club,” but I feel like I should look into joining.

The prices are a refreshing change from Boston. Our outstanding cocktails ranged from $7 to $9, and the microbrews were around $6 (the Schlitz and the PBR, $3.50). The frickles (!) were $5, the cherry bombs $6. My awesome avocado dog was a mere $7, and Kelly’s burger was $11, which was a good deal considering it encompassed both breakfast and dinner. Both are available more cheaply if you forgo the accoutrements (but why would you?).

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I stopped in very briefly on the following Saturday afternoon. As expected, it was pretty quiet, with just a handful of customers; but the atmosphere was still surprisingly upbeat. The bartender regaled me with an amusing tale about his aversion to caffeine, then put on some Motown tunes, which resulted in most of the six patrons singing quietly to themselves (and the bartender singing not so quietly). It again made the Gaff feel very familiar, like drinking in a bar that your friend opened. That seems appropriate – as noted on their website, “gaff” is Irish slang for home, as in “Let’s go back to the gaff for a pint!”

I haven’t been there enough to call it home. But I’ll stop in for a drink and a laugh anytime.

Address: 467 Moody Street, Waltham

Website:http://www.thegaffbar.com/

Parish Café

A beer and a sandwich. It is a combination as inherently simple as it is deeply satisfying.

And the possibilities are endless! A complex, gourmet-grade sandwich with a masterful combination of meats, cheeses, veggies, and other accoutrements, accompanied by a robust porter. Something more basic, like a pastrami sandwich with a crisp pilsner. Or maybe…in a pinch…a PB&J and a PBR (don’t look at me like that, you’ve been there too).

A sandwich and a beer is about as straightforward as you can get. Bread, meat, cheese, veggies, hops, and barley. Have someone pass you the remote, and you’re on your way to a pretty decent afternoon.

You can easily whip this up at home, but let’s face it – a sandwich always tastes better when someone else makes it, and a beer always looks more enticing when it’s streaming out of a tap. That said, you can find a good sandwich anywhere in Boston. But as far as I know, there’s only one place where you can get good sandwiches from everywhere in Boston.

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The Parish Café is a Back Bay institution with a simple, unique concept – a menu of sandwiches designed by renowned chefs at some of the top restaurants in Boston. Each sandwich bears the name of its respective restaurant or chef and reflects the style of that eatery’s cuisine. Not that Parish relies solely on the culinary kindness of strangers; their own chefs contribute sandwiches and entrées as well. And since that results in a pretty broad array of flavors and styles, there’s a killer beer list to match your selection.

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It’s a basic formula, but one that has garnered Parish Café widespread critical acclaim, occasional celebrity guests, and countless fans. Its walls are adorned with Best of Boston awards, glowing published reviews, and a host of other accolades. You’ll have plenty of time to peruse them while you’re standing in line, which is nearly inevitable if you want a table.

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I recently visited the Parish Café with one of my oldest and most difficult friends, Christine. I arrived at 5:30 on a Thursday and found about 25 people at the bar, although most of the tables in the dining area were still free (it wasn’t until later that I realized what a novelty this was). The interior is fairly small, with a modern, casual feel. It has something of an autumnal glow, with warm orange lights, a black ceiling, cream-colored walls, and worn, brown hardwood floors.

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There’s a long, curvy bar with a handsome, dark wood top and about 17 stools. Ten or so tables are squeezed into the bar area, and another 10 to 12 fill up the dining area. The mirrored wall behind the bar is an attractive touch and makes the space look a little bigger than it is. There’s also an outdoor patio in front for the warmer months; if people watching is your thing, you can’t pick a much better spot than Boylston Street.

Since Christine was heading into town from distant lands and I had time to kill, I grabbed one of the few remaining seats at the bar and took a look at the cocktail list. Like the sandwich menu, about half of the drinks are designed by area mixologists, while the rest are Parish Café originals. Although it was November, Parish was still peddling “Summer Cocktails.” Nothing says autumn like a watermelon mojito, right? I wasn’t going to let an outdated label deter me, but it would have been cool to see what they could devise for fall or winter cocktail offerings.

I began with the drink with the coolest name on the menu – the Wandering Poet, concocted by Jen Jasmin of Via Matta, a Back Bay Italian restaurant. A combo of Absolute Vanilla vodka, triple sec, fresh lime juice, simple syrup, and sour mix, it reminded me somewhat of a SweeTart candy. It was a light, refreshing drink that, on a raw November evening, gave me bittersweet visions of warmer weather.

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The Peach Smash, on the other hand, I’d drink all year round. A Parish Café original, this was a smooth mix of Maker’s Mark bourbon, Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur, white peach puree, simple syrup, fresh mint, sweet vermouth, and ginger ale. I found it to be a fresh combination of flavors, with the peach puree giving it a pleasantly creamy texture.

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After an hour or so, I figured Christine must be walking to Boston, and I needed something to tide me over. The appetizer menu offered a few unusual items, like vegetarian corn cakes, and an oversize meatball. Drawn as I was to the novelty of ordering an oversize meatball, I settled on the roasted “reggae” wings, marinated in Jamaican jerk spices, fresh citrus, and soy, and served with a banana mango chutney. Juicy and tender, they were the perfect pre-sandwich snack. The meat not only fell right off the bone – it would barely stay on the bone. The sweet heat of the chutney was a welcome accompaniment, though the banana flavor really stood out (I could have done without it).

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Many hours or perhaps days later, Christine arrived; all of the tables were taken, and we were lucky to have a couple seats at the bar. As this was Christine’s first time accompanying me on a blogging mission, I explained how helpful it is when people order a variety of cocktails. You know, it gives me more to discuss, more pictures to take. She then proceeded to order the same drink I’d had, the Wandering Poet. Sigh…

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Myself, I was long done with cocktails at that point and eyeing Parish’s top-notch beer selection. They’ve got about 20 beers on draft and at least another 50 or so in bottles, helpfully organized on the menu by type (lagers, Belgians, brown ales, etc.). The Fisherman’s Imperial Pumpkin Stout immediately caught my eye, but the bartender cautioned me that it was $18 a bottle; I respectfully declined. I went instead with the Ipswich Oatmeal Stout, shifting into a winter mode after my summery libations.

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Now if you’re a serious beer drinker and plan to spend a tremendous amount of your time at the Parish Café, you can join their Mug Club. All you have to do is drink all 125 of their beer offerings within six months, and you’re rewarded with your very own 25-ounce glass beer stein to use whenever you visit. You can even have it personalized. Whether the economics are in your favor, only you can decide. But the club’s mugs hang above the bar, challenging you to join their ranks.

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Impressive as the beer list is, the sandwiches are the true draw here. Ranging from simple to fancy, with a bevy of meaty, vegetarian, and seafood options to choose from, there’s something for every palate. And if you enjoy all of the above, good luck deciding what to get. I’d been scrutinizing the menu the entire time I waited for Christine, and when it came time to order, I was still no closer to making my mind up. The pork belly sandwich from the chef at Coppa and Toro? The crabmeat sandwich from fancy schmancy L’Espalier? The Blue Ginger, a sandwich of tuna steak, grilled rare, fashioned by the Wellesley restaurant of the same name?

I narrowed my options to three: the Mexican meatball sub, by Brian Poe, and two Parish Café originals – a chipotle meatloaf sandwich and a steak sandwich.

Tempting as it was, I eliminated the meatball sub; since I was already familiar with Brian Poe’s handiwork as the executive chef of the Rattlesnake Bar and Grill and the newer Tip Tap Room, I figured I should branch out a bit. Still torn, I asked the bartender to settle my meatloaf v. steak dilemma, and he advocated for the latter.

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The Vieira, named after Parish sous chef Ederson Vieira, consisted of pounded, sliced flank steak in a soy, chili, and garlic marinade, sautéed, on an Italian sub roll with roasted red peppers, watercress, onions, and a homemade basil aioli. The steak was juicy; the sandwich, full of flavor. I wondered why I’d had so much trouble deciding on it.

I explained to Christine that, since I’d be writing about a Boston bar that’s famous for its sandwiches, it would be helpful if she got one so that I’d have more variety in my post. She then proceeded to order an entrée. Sigh…

She opted for Sean’s Simple Chicken, presumably devised by Parish’s executive chef, Sean Simmons – pounded, breaded chicken cutlets served with chopped tomatoes and capers, and served over garlic-mashed potatoes and baby spinach. Conveniently, like all of Parish’s entrées, it comes in both a full order and half order. Christine opted for the half order and regretted it; she deemed the chicken delicious and wished she’d gone with the full serving.

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Parish was crowded the entire time we were there, the line for tables growing longer as the hours passed. The tables in the dining area looked pretty crammed, but our spot at the bar was surprisingly comfortable and roomy. Despite the volume of customers, we didn’t have people constantly reaching over our food to retrieve a drink.

I closed out with one more beer, a Paulaner Oktoberfest Marzen (which was just OK).

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I explained to Christine how helpful it is, from a blogging standpoint, if we both order a few different beers from a place like Parish, which has such a broad selection. She got a glass of wine.

Sigh…

Last Call

The restaurant business is notoriously cutthroat, but Parish Café turns the concept of competition on its head – competing chefs contributing original recipes; Parish advertising the wares of competing chefs. It’s an unexpected approach, but it seems like everyone wins. Customers perusing the menu get a sense of other good eateries in Boston, and maybe they’ll go check them out. Yet they’ll probably come back to Parish, too, because of the variety.

And boy do they come back. I walked by on a gorgeous fall Saturday afternoon to find the outdoor seating area full, a line for tables inside, and a packed bar area. I even returned on a Sunday at noon, and there was a line at the door before the place even opened.

But don’t let the crowds deter you. Most of them will tell you that Parish’s sandwiches are worth the wait. There’s also a pretty quick turnover at the bar; you usually don’t have to wait much more than 5 or 10 minutes for a seat.

Prices are fairly reasonable, for the most part. The sandwiches range from about $12 to $19, but there are only a couple at the upper end of that range. They’re also good-sized and, from my experience, very well made. The entrées were all under $15, and you can get a half order if you’re feeling thrifty (or counting calories). The cocktails ranged from $8.50 to $12, which isn’t bad. The selection of microbrews is highly respectable, and the beers I had ranged from $6.50 to $7.50; a little on the high side, but not the worst I’ve seen.

Parish’s enduring popularity led to the opening of a second location, in the South End, in 2010. It’s the same idea, the same eclectic sandwich menu, and the same result – a true taste of Boston.

Website:http://parishcafe.com/

Address: 361 Boylston Street, Boston

Tullamore D.E.W. Irish Whiskey Toast & Taste

Whiskey is a captivating liquor. When first poured into a wooden cask, its components are eminently simple – water and a mash of grains. But by the time it’s poured into a glass, years or perhaps decades later, it may be the very pinnacle of complexity.

Whiskey conjures sharply conflicting images. It is a dark brown liquid in a dusty bottle in a dirty saloon in the old West. It is a supporting player in a sugary cocktail. It is a status symbol at $70 a glass in an elegant lounge.

In that respect, it is an everyman’s drink. At the same time, whiskey is very much an acquired taste. The heavenly quality of even the oldest, smoothest single malt would be wasted on the palate of the uninitiated.

I remember my first sip of whiskey, if you can even call it a sip; I don’t honestly recall whether it made it past my lips. As I lifted the glass, I felt a strange presence tickling my nose hairs, and my upper lip twisted upward into an involuntary snarl. How does anyone drink this, I wondered.

Because yes, your first sip of whiskey burns. As does your second. And your third.

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But what begins as repulsion grows to a challenge ­– can you drink it without cringing? It then becomes a badge of honor when you can order a glass of whiskey on the rocks and down the whole thing by yourself. Gradually, despite your earlier misgivings, you develop an appreciation. And by the time someone pours you a rich, velvety, 21-year-old single malt whiskey, you’ve fallen deeply, hopelessly in love.

That potent liquid no longer gives you the shivers, but it’s a full-body experience just the same. Your lips tingle as you take the first sip. And you don’t just quaff it down; you sit with it. Its oaky, smoky essence permeates every corner of your mouth, and a small flame burns in the back of your throat when you finally swallow it. After a few sips, a warmth unique to whiskey slowly spreads, up from your belly, across your limbs, and down through your extremities.

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A fierce, centuries-long debate continues to rage between the Irish and the Scots as to who is responsible for first distilling this mysterious spirit. As my bloodlines trace to both Ireland and Scotland, I don’t have too much of an opinion on the matter, but I admit more evidence points to the Emerald Isle. If Ireland can claim victory in the argument over who invented whiskey, though, Scotland is the undisputed champion of modern-day distribution. Ninety million cases of Scottish whisky get shipped to all corners of the globe every year, while Ireland ships a relatively modest 5 million cases.

The seeds of that disparity were planted in the late 19th century, when the Scottish embraced cheaper, more efficient methods for distilling whisky while the Irish insisted on a more traditional approach that took more time but yielded more flavor. Quicker production meant a bigger market share for the Scots, and that was even before a series of calamities struck the Irish whiskey industry. First, Ireland’s War of Independence ravaged its export business during 1919–1921. Emerging from that struggle, Irish distillers discovered they had lost their biggest customer, the United States, on account of Prohibition. And worse, bootleg knockoffs of Irish whiskey that proliferated in the States during that period tainted the spirit’s reputation. The U.S. markets reopened in 1933, but by then the world was on the cusp of war, and the effects of World War II nearly destroyed the Irish whiskey industry entirely. Most of the remaining Irish distilleries soon closed or merged, and while the quality of Irish whiskey never diminished, its level of output never recovered.

But an interesting thing happened last year – in 2011, for the first time in decades, Irish whiskey outsold single malt Scotch in the United States. And that’s part of a global trend. While Scottish whisky still captures 60% of the market, sales of Irish whiskey are noticeably on the rise.

I asked Tim Herlihy, U.S. brand ambassador for Ireland’s Tullamore D.E.W. whiskey, why that was, and he attributed the renaissance of Irish whiskey to its accessibility. “There are so many rules about Scotch,” he said. “With Irish whiskey, you can drink it neat, on the rocks, with water, in ginger ale, as a shot; it’s easy.”

Tullamore D.E.W. hosted a whiskey tasting at the Asgard in Central Square this week, and Tim invited me to have a drink with him beforehand to talk shop. Free whiskey and a chance to chat with someone who drinks for a living seemed like the foundation for a pretty decent evening, so I was happy to oblige.

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If you’re unfamiliar with Tullamore D.E.W., it’s no surprise. Although Tullamore D.E.W. is the second most popular brand of Irish whiskey in the world, it’s a distant third in the United States, behind Jameson, the almighty industry leader, and Bushmills. But sales of Tullamore D.E.W. have nearly doubled since 2005 on the heels of an aggressive marketing campaign that promotes Tullamore D.E.W.’s long history and tradition. A redesigned label reminds drinkers that Tullamore D.E.W. has been distilling continuously since 1829. Even the name has gotten a subtle makeover: what was once Tullamore Dew is now Tullamore D.E.W. The initials are those of one of the distillery’s earliest owners, Daniel E. Williams, whose struggles to bring his product to prominence in the 19th century are reflected in Tullamore D.E.W.’s present efforts to compete in a crowded global market.

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Tim told a few good stories about life in Ireland and his international travels, offered up some traditional Irish toasts, and most importantly, treated me to samples of Tullamore D.E.W.’s four whiskey varieties. First up was Tullamore’s original whiskey – a rich, amber color, spicy and citrusy up front, with a smooth finish.

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My first experience with this particular variety was at the Buena Vista Café in San Francisco – the very bar that introduced the wonder of Irish coffee to the United States. The Buena Vista (“a great Irish bar,” Tim said, reverently) makes its famous drink exclusively with Tullamore D.E.W., which means tens of thousands of customers have tried Tullamore whether they know it or not.

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The original blend is easy to drink, just as Tim suggested. But an established Scotch drinker doesn’t require a gentle, accessible whiskey. So what about those of us who enjoy the ceremony and pretension of drinking a more complex spirit? “Well,” Tim said, smiling, “that’s why we have this.” He then unveiled Tullamore D.E.W.’s 10-year-old single malt whiskey. Matured in four casks – bourbon, sherry, port, and Madeira – the single malt was considerably more intense than the original. With a rich, floral aroma, notes of vanilla and toasted wood, and a smooth finish, the single malt would appeal to those who prefer the complexity of a finer whiskey. If you live locally, you’ll just have to take my word for it; sadly, the 10-year single malt is not yet available in Massachusetts.

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Next up was a 10-year-old reserve, a soft, medium-bodied whiskey with a spicy finish. This one was altogether different. Luxuriously smooth, the 10-year reserve possessed a sweetness that its predecessors lacked, along with a distinctive, surprising creaminess. It was probably my favorite of the four, and I know I’m not the only one who was impressed – the 10-year reserve won Best in Show at the 2012 Los Angeles International Spirits Competition, 2012. Sláinte!

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The final sample was a real treat – a 12-year-old special reserve. Full-bodied, spicy, and pleasantly intense, the 12-year is matured in sherry casks and had a nutty flavor with hints of vanilla. It’s garnered several international awards, most recently serving as runner-up to the 10-year reserve in the same spirits competition earlier this year.

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As Tullamore D.E.W. rides the wave of Irish whiskey’s global resurgence, things are going well in the homeland, too. Production of Tullamore D.E.W. is about to return to the town of Tullamore for the first time since the original distillery closed in 1954. Owner William Grant & Sons is investing €35 million in a state-of-the-art distillery that is scheduled to break ground next month, creating jobs in Tullamore and restoring a sense of civic pride to a town that has had to endure its namesake whiskey being distilled elsewhere for almost 60 years.

Four satisfying samples later, I found myself more informed about Irish whiskey and Tullamore D.E.W. in particular. I didn’t even know they had more than one variety, and experiencing the whole range was enlightening. Tim closed our evening with a toast – “Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking. If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal a heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother. And if you drink, may you drink with me.”

Any time, good sir.

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Last Call

Everything about whiskey requires patience. The liquor itself takes years to mature. When it reaches your glass, you sip it slowly. And a lifetime of enjoying it is equal parts education and appreciation. It takes time to understand the nuances of single malts vs. blends, or the distinct qualities of Scotch, Irish whiskey, bourbon, and rye. Only a fair amount of trial and error will reveal which brands work well in a Manhattan, which types are enhanced by a cube of ice, and which varieties absolutely, positively must be consumed neat. Your personal preference, like the character of a good whiskey itself, needs time to fully emerge.

If you’re a novice, attending a whiskey tasting can provide for an illuminating introduction to this potent spirit. But even if you’re an established whiskey enthusiast, there’s always something new to learn, or to impart to others. That said, I’m grateful to Tim for inviting me out for a few drinks. Truly, one of the most fulfilling things about appreciating whiskey is having a conversation with someone who understands and shares your passion. After all, learning to enjoy whiskey can be a long journey, and it’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler.

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Beacon Hill Pub

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There is probably no greater concentration of wealth, power, and high society in Boston than in Beacon Hill. It has been home to U.S. senators, famous writers and poets, signers of the Constitution, captains of industry, and people who can trace their bloodlines to the Mayflower. It is the most expensive neighborhood in the city to live, and despite pockets of affordability, many of Beacon Hill’s historic residences are occupied by people with old surnames and older money.

Not that you have to be among the cultural elite to enjoy Beacon Hill’s countless charms. It is one of the most beautiful areas in the city (imagine that!), and you could spend hours exploring this ancient maze in downtown Boston. Beacon Hill is a portrait of early American history. Walking along gas-lit brick sidewalks and narrow, cobblestone streets, you find yourself surrounded by brick row houses that have stood for centuries. There are museums in private residences, hidden gardens enclosed by tall, wrought iron fences, flowerboxes adorning window sills, and ornate brass knockers affixed to classic-looking wooden doors.

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Beacon Hill is probably the most photographed neighborhood in Boston, and it’s easy to see why.

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Every street you peer down looks like a painting. At the top of the hill sits the State House, with its opulent gold dome. Along the outer perimeter are the Boston Common, the Public Garden, and Charles Street, with its antique shops, boutiques, and realty offices where you can look at the listings in the window and imagine owning one of those remarkable properties.

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The long, rich history and enduring beauty of these majestic environs make Beacon Hill one of the most desirable areas of Boston, whether you live there or are simply content to visit.

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Thus, it’s always struck me as amusingly ironic that this unspoiled gem of a neighborhood is home to one of the diviest dive bars in the city – the Beacon Hill Pub.

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The BHP, as it’s affectionately known, probably doesn’t make it onto a lot of tourist guides. It’s not exactly the crown jewel of the Beacon Hill; there aren’t many areas it would be the crown jewel of, for that matter. Not that that bothers the proprietors of the BHP, who heartily embrace the gritty character of their bar, or the pub’s many loyal patrons. How many bars would boast about being called the worst dive in the state? That’s right – behind the bar that is a printed quote from a review that calls BHP “a bar scene straight out of Star Wars.” Talk about owning it!

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I don’t know exactly how long the Beacon Hill Pub has been around. I’d call and ask, but they apparently don’t have a phone. I’d stop in to inquire, but I think a question like that would be met with a raised eyebrow and a “hey buddy, did you say bottle or draft” response. Regardless of how long this place has been pouring its affordable suds, the BHP looks like it could be as old as some of the beautifully preserved architecture surrounding it, even if it hasn’t been maintained to quite the same level of quality.

You might expect a bar in Beacon Hill to be an old-world, subdued, upscale tavern with mahogany walls and leather wing chairs, serving 40-year-old scotches and bottles of wine to men in suits who remark “Ahhh, the ’67…not quite as fragrant as the ’64.” Instead, the BHP is a decidedly humble and, depending on when you go, surprisingly lively dive bar.

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In a neighborhood that boasts swanky lounges like Alibi and modern bars like the Tip Tap Room, the BHP is refreshingly basic. Beyond its nondescript black doors is a large, dark pub that offers no hint of the world outside. The light of day never disturbs the interior of the Beacon Hill Pub, not even through the utterly incongruous stained glass windows. The dim light inside comes mostly from dusty chandeliers with flickering, flame-shaped orange bulbs and the ambient glow of neon Busch, High Life, and Bud Light signs. The rust-colored tile floor probably benefits from the lack of illumination.

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For a place that looks and feels like a cozy hole in the wall, the BHP is pretty big. There’s a cavernous space when you step inside that fills up with standees late at night, giving way to a long bar with a laminate wood surface and more than its share of battle scars. There are a dozen brown swivel chairs at the bar and five half-tables with additional seating. There’s even a second full-size bar in another room, though I think it’s only in use late at night or on weekends.

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Given its sweet downtown location and proximity to the Charles/MGH subway stop, you’d think the BHP would be jam-packed after work. It’s usually not. I’ve stopped in around 5:30, often on Fridays, and been one of four or five people. But for me, that’s part of the appeal. I certainly enjoy the vibrancy of the after-work crowd – laughing with coworkers about some crap that happened in the office that day, and being part of what feels like the whole city collectively letting off steam. But I sometimes prefer a calmer, more private atmosphere. A place to collect my thoughts, write, watch SportsCenter, or have a quiet conversation while sipping a $3 Narragansett tallboy.

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The aforementioned comparison to Tatooine’s Mos Eisley Cantina might be a little unfair; I’ve never personally been threatened by anyone with a death sentence on 12 systems or witnessed a dismembering via lightsaber (although I can’t deny how awesome the latter would be). Still, the BHP does attract a broad cast of characters. The small post-work crowd is often populated by old men grumbling about politics, positing one-dimensional solutions to the world’s problems and commenting on every image and news item that flashes on one of BHP’s three TVs (there’s a fourth TV, actually, but it just shows the security feed from other areas of the bar). But the cheap beer also attracts college students in droves, particularly in the later hours. Mix in MGH workers in scrubs and a few guys in suits stopping in after work, and you’ve got a pretty diverse and colorful crowd at pretty much any time of day.

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On one of my recent Friday visits, I found about 15 people occupying the bar around 5:30. As I walked in, Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life” started playing on the BHP’s always unpredictable jukebox. It felt fitting, given my surroundings – that warm, familiar intro, the story of a musician playing for spare change in a grungy subway station. In an “only at BHP” moment, it was followed by the obscure Metallica nugget “The Four Horsemen.” Yep.

BHP has about 12 beers on tap, and the selection is pretty well tailored to the clientele – Bud, Bud Light, Miller High Life, and the like, with UFO, Guinness, and Long Trail for those who prefer something with a bit more complexity. Maybe it’s a when-in-Rome thing, but I tend to look right past the taps and stick with the basics when I’m here.

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If you’re hungry, go somewhere else first. There’s no food here, although if you’re in a pinch, you won’t starve.

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For a generally “no frills” bar, the BHP offers quite a few diversions. There’s a foosball table and a golf arcade game when you walk in, and a couple of dartboards in the main bar area. Now, that’s not uncommon; but a dedicated “game room” is. Yes, once you’ve put back a few tallboys, you can test your aim at Big Buck Hunter, unleash a little post-work aggression with the boxing game, or shoot a few hoops.

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You can also play DJ with the jukebox, but unless you can come up with an inspired mix like “Easy Like Sunday Morning” followed by a White Zombie song and a live version of the Talking Heads’ “Burning Down the House,” why not just leave the running playlist to chance?

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I usually keep to the beer when I’m here, but since I always try working a cocktail or two into a post, I figured I should see what BHP had to offer. Now this certainly isn’t the kind of place that has a menu of fancy drinks; but before I ordered a gin and tonic or something equally unimaginative, I thought, maybe I should ask the bartender if he has a specialty. I mean, you never know when you’re going to stumble upon some really unique or notably well-made drink, right? So I asked. His answer? “Yeah, whiskey.” So I went for a Jameson on the rocks. No complaints.

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The bar began filling up in earnest by 6:45, and as much as I was enjoying hearing “Shout at the Devil” for the first time in a decade or so, I had to excuse myself before the night crowd settled in. While the BHP is quiet in the early evening, it’s a completely different affair in the later hours. The place gets so packed on Friday and Saturday nights, you can barely move; sometimes there’s even a line to get in.

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Imagine that – all the nice bars in Boston, especially downtown, and there’s a line to get into the Beacon Hill Pub. Is it the lure of the $3 Narragansett? Or is it because last call at BHP is 2 a.m., while many other nearby bars close up shop at 1?

Perhaps. But I think there’s more to it than that. The BHP is casual and unpretentious. You laugh a little louder there. Maybe you drink a little more, too. And after a long day of answering to people, or a night of having to be on your game, it’s nice to come to a place where you can just relax and be yourself. I think that’s the Beacon Hill Pub’s true appeal.

That, or Big Buck Hunter.

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Last Call

It’s not the most inviting-looking entrance on Charles Street, but it would be hard to feel unwelcome at the Beacon Hill Pub. Like a lot of old dive bars, it’s the kind of place that feels familiar even if it’s your first time there. Between the characters in the late afternoon and the big crowd at night, it’s the sort of bar where you can either fly comfortably under the radar or talk and laugh at the top of your lungs.

As I already mentioned, the BHP is a pretty affordable place to drink. Aside from my usual Narragansett, on my last trip I ordered a PBR and a High Life that came to a total of $6.25. Beyond bottles and cans, the drink prices are a little more typical of the area. I got a Blue Moon on draft for $5.50, and my Jameson was $6.50.

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As reasonable as the prices are, make sure you hit the ATM before you go. The BHP is cash only, as they helpfully remind you with a dozen or so signs posted throughout the bar. But there’s an ATM on site if you need one more tallboy and only have $2 (don’t judge, we’ve all been there).

The Beacon Hill Pub makes no bones about what it is. That remark about it being “a bar scene straight out of Star Wars”? They took a jab like that and made it a rallying cry, posting it behind the bar and making it their slogan on Facebook and Twitter. (They update their Twitter feed about once every three to six months, with one recent entry flaunting the bar’s stainless steel toilet seats; again, way to own it, BHP.)

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Situated in the most exclusive area in Boston, the BHP is an everyman’s bar. And while a blue collar place like this may seem out of place in a blue blood neighborhood, Beacon Hill and the pub that bears its name are both, in their own way, Boston classics.

Address: 149 Charles Street, Boston

Website: Yeah, right.

P.S. Han shot first.

In Memoriam – Sadie's Saloon

I hope I never lose the joy of discovery. Meeting new people, making new friends, finding new bars, new music, new cities, new common interests. It makes me feel like I’m constantly growing – not just growing older. Of course, I can’t exactly help that “growing older” thing. And while I try to keep life fresh with regular infusions of new experiences, I find that age brings with it a tendency to cling ever more tightly to traditions. Sometimes with a vice-like grip, as if failing to honor them means forever losing a part of myself. You might check out my Montreal post if you want about a dozen examples of this, ranging from truly meaningful to patently absurd, but I suspect it’s not just me. Life cruises along on its own schedule, never slackening its pace, even when we so desperately need it to. Especially on those rare nights we wish wouldn’t end, like when we laughed until our sides hurt or made a special connection with someone.

It might not be possible to relive those experiences, but I doubt I’m the only one who’s tried to recapture the magic. So we return to the same places with the same people and attempt, deliberately or unconsciously, to recreate the conditions that left us with such a powerful, lasting memory. And however silly those traditions and rituals may seem at times, in truth, they’re rarely ever foolish. If it means something to you, then it’s meaningful.

If you’ll indulge me, I’ll share with you a special tradition of mine.

My brother Andrew and his girlfriend Linda moved to Florida 5 years ago. The upside of that is that my family has a reason to visit Florida every now and then. And don’t get me wrong – that’s a pretty fun upside.

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The downside, of course, is that we only get to hang out with two of our favorite people a few times a year. They come back to Boston for occasional visits, but it’s usually around the holidays, and you know how that goes. Places to go, people to see. And when you see loved ones that infrequently, you really need to make the most of the time you have.

That said, whenever Andrew and Linda have to come to visit, regardless of the purpose of their or how long they’re staying, one event has always been one written on our agenda in indelible ink.

A trip to Sadie’s Saloon in Waltham.

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If you’re familiar with Sadie’s, you know it’s a fairly unassuming backdrop for such a key reunion. But it’s always been our place, and it’s the only time that Andrew, Linda, Melissa, Kelly, and I can be assured of having each other’s undivided attention. A chance to catch up on new stories and rehash some old ones, all with cheap pitchers of beer and the best steak tips around. After dinner, we head elsewhere for more drinks and to meet up with other people, but the Sadie’s portion of the night has mostly been just for us (and a few other occasional guests), and it’s one ritual we’d never mess with. For Andrew and Linda, Sadie’s has always been about coming home; for us, it’s been about spending precious time with loved ones.

Thus it is with a heavy heart that I write this week’s post – a tribute to Sadie’s Saloon, which after 22 years of business, closed its doors on Friday, October 19.

Sadie’s was the kind of bar that probably looked old the day it opened. And while it was known as “Sadie’s Saloon & Eatery” for 22 years, its story dates back much further. It was apparently preceded by a bar called “Ma’s” (why am I not surprised), and the building’s basement served as a speakeasy during Prohibition. I’m sure it got an upgrade or two over the years, but this was the kind of place where you’d walk in and feel like things hadn’t changed in a looooong time.

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But the world around it – specifically, the Moody Street area – changed quite a bit. In a neighborhood that grew to host a microbrewery, a couple of good barbecue places, an Irish pub with live music, a tapas bar, a cocktail bar or two, a Mexican restaurant on the water, sports bars with dozens of big TVs, and a movie theater, Sadie’s maintained its straightforward, down-to-earth appearance and attitude. It was never the main attraction, even before all those other places came along, but I doubt it ever endeavored to be.

No, Sadie’s had all the trappings of a true neighborhood pub. A scuffed-up wooden bar with maybe 10 seats. An adjacent dining area, somewhat separated from the bar. A few TVs. Neon Budweiser signs. Beer mirrors. Keno. A vending machine selling scratch tickets. Booths with vinyl seats. Formica-topped tables – some with aged wooden chairs, others with metal folding chairs.

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There was never a big remodeling, or an overhaul of the menu, or a lineup of the latest craft beers, or a list of fancy cocktails. Sadie’s was a decidedly blue collar bar where the beer was a little cheaper, the pours were a little heavier, and the Boston accents were a little thicker.

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No frills. But plenty of character.

While neighboring establishments gave a much-needed boost to downtown Waltham, Sadie’s remained a vestige of a time gone by. And if the growing vibrancy of Moody Street made Sadie’s look increasingly dated, its longevity proves that simple never really goes out of style.

Melissa, Kelly, and I stopped into Sadie’s for one last visit before it closed. It wasn’t the same without Andrew and Linda, and we couldn’t get the highly coveted round booth (reserved for parties of four or more), but you can’t have everything. For a bar that was never terribly busy, it was packed on a Tuesday night. The waitress told us a table would only be a 15-minute wait, so we stood at the bar and took it all in one last time. All night I’d see people walk in the door and head straight for the dining area, the way they probably did a hundred times before, only to find every table taken and scant standing room at the bar.

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The atmosphere that night was one of both celebration and sadness. I don’t know how many times I overheard someone say “I can’t believe they’re closing.” People came, paid their respects, drank a few beers, and spun some old yarns.

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We talked with a long-time Sadie’s regular who rattled off a few hysterical stories about the place, including an incident some years back in which an armed robber stormed in with the intent of sticking the place up. The bartender, apparently, had other ideas – he said “Go f*ck yourself” and threw a bottle that connected with the forehead of the gun-toting, would-be thief. The stunned robber fled the premises, but the bartender wasn’t done. He leapt over the bar, ran down the street, caught the perp, dragged him back to the bar, and held him there until the police arrived.

True story? Maybe, maybe not. But when I heard it, something about the old-school vibe of Sadie’s made me think…yeah, I could see that.

After an hour or so, we asked how much longer our 15-minute wait would be, only to find that our name was no longer on the list. Annoying as this was, it seemed oddly appropriate; in all our years of going there, I don’t think the Sadie’s wait staff ever fully grasped the concept of the list. Hey, I never said the place was perfect.

Although we were short two important regulars, we faithfully adhered to the rest of our traditions. Mel bought a scratch ticket, as always (she often won a few bucks, but not this time).

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Kelly joked about playing Keno, but never actually did. And we placed the same order we’d been placing for years.

For drinks? A pitcher of Bud Light.

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Followed by Buffalo wings.

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And then the main event...

Whatever comforts could be found at Sadie’s – cheap drinks, a sense of camaraderie, a refreshing simplicity – chances are, most people were there for the steak tips. When we’d come with Andrew and Linda, we’d sit around the booth and pretty much all order steak tips with minor variations – medium, medium rare; with mashed potatoes, without; gravy, no gravy.

My order never varied, and with a stiff upper lip, I placed it one last time – Sadie’s tips, medium rare; mashed potatoes with gravy. I was stricken when our waitress told us they had run out of mashed potatoes; but since she said they were also fast running out of steak tips, I counted my blessings and settled for onion rings.

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As we finished our meals, and I restrained myself from licking the plate, I wondered whether I should have come here more often. Even though it felt like sacrilege to do so without Andrew and Linda, I thought…I’m never going to have these tips again. But as phenomenal as the tips were, there was a warmth in our Sadie’s tradition that had nothing to do with the food.

The most important parts of that tradition will continue, of course. We’ll see Andrew and Linda the next time they’re in town, and as always, there’ll be at least one night of dinner, drinks, hijinks, and merriment. We don’t need to be at Sadie’s to swap stories and make each other laugh. But we’ll miss it just the same.

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Last Call…and I Mean Last Call

Call it what you want – a dive, a townie bar, a hole in the wall, a hidden gem, all of the above. To Andrew, Linda, Melissa, Kelly, and me, Sadie’s Saloon was a very special place. And judging by how busy the bar was during its final week, it meant something to a lot of people.

The reason for closing wasn’t publicized. Some said the economy was to blame; one of the regulars told me it was simply because the owner was retiring. And while we’re on the subject of unsubstantiated rumors, I’ve been told that another establishment on Moody Street uses the same steak tip recipe that Sadie’s did; I’ll have to look into that and get back to you.

As painful as the loss of Sadie’s is, the whole experience makes me appreciate the places I frequent now. My favorite bars aren’t the newest or most glamorous in town; like Sadie’s, they’re the most familiar. They evoke the warmest memories. They’re places I’ve spent hours at with good friends, or maybe even by myself.

If you have a place like that, and I hope you do, then I suggest you make the most of it. It might not be there forever.

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Shōjō

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I very rarely find myself in Chinatown; which is odd, given its proximity to my office and my fondness for Asian cuisine. Upon reflection, I attribute the infrequency of my visits to three factors. First, the paucity of bars in the area means that Chinatown normally isn’t part of the “where should we have drinks tonight” conversation. It’s somewhere you go almost exclusively for lunch or dinner.

That brings me to my second issue. While some neighborhoods may suffer from a lack of viable eateries, the reverse is true in Chinatown – there are almost too many options. It’s a densely packed area with dozens upon dozens of restaurants, and unless I’m headed to a particular destination, the prospect of simply picking a place to eat is overwhelming.

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Finally, my lingering memory of those few occasions when I have dined in Chinatown is of being squeezed into an absurdly tight space in an already crowded restaurant. The neighborhood’s popularity, combined with the small size of some of the restaurants, often means you’re standing outside while waiting for a table. And when you do get a table, you might find yourself squished into a corner near the utility closet (as once happened to a friend of mine). It can make for a chaotic dining experience.

Then you have Shōjō – which does everything differently.

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A first glance alone reveals Shōjō to be distinct from its neighbors. Amid a throng of red and yellow signs advertising dumplings or “exotic” cocktails, its exterior is subtle and understated – a black and white sign against a gray wall, with a row of tall bamboo separating the entrance from the sidewalk. And as soon as you step in, the differences between Shōjō and every other place in Chinatown quickly become apparent.

Shōjō is spacious, refined, and serene. There’s a small, L-shaped bar and 10 or 12 tables, nicely spread out, each with chopsticks wrapped in thick black napkins at the place settings.

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The look and feel is equal parts rustic and modern – which, as one of the managers told me, is very much by design. Gleaming wooden tables with handsome black chairs and a shiny gray concrete floor reflect modern-day craftsmanship, while aged-looking exposed brick, a bar made with reclaimed wood from the 1700s and 1800s, and Shinto bar stools recall a sense of tradition. High ceilings and hanging caged lights give the entire space something of an industrial feel.

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Painted on the far wall is a mural depicting the journey of the restaurant’s namesake, Shōjō – a Japanese mythical figure, half-man and half-monkey, who scours the world in search of a never-ending river of sake. (I hope he finds it and makes a detailed map.)

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It’s an upscale place that could be very serious in tone, but the atmosphere instead seems relaxed. Shōjō was even decorated for Halloween when I was there, cobwebs and spiders adorning light fixtures and walls, making things feel casual and playful. Plus, when the cornerstone of the décor is a monkey man looking for a river of sake, how uptight could a place like this be?

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I sought out Shōjō on account of its reputation for well-made cocktails. Again, Chinatown doesn’t come to mind as an obvious destination for drinks, so the idea of a craft cocktail lounge in the neighborhood seemed pretty novel.

I visited on a recent Saturday with fellow barhoppers Kelly, Kat, and Tracy. The bar was full when we arrived at 7 p.m., but only a few of the tables were occupied and we were seated immediately.

We could tell we were in good hands as soon as we sat down. Our waiter, Justin, was one of the friendliest, most helpful servers I’ve had in ages. Whenever we ordered a drink, he inquired as to whether we’d had it before, apprised us of any unusual ingredients, and suggested modifications for us to consider.

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Now I freely admit – despite my having heard good things about Shōjō’s cocktails, I was expecting scorpion bowls and Mai Tais, or at least very upscale tiki drinks. What I found instead was a small, well-conceived cocktail menu that put an Asian twist on classic drinks while offering a few unique creations. There’s also an extensive selection of sake (Shōjō himself would approve), including one brand that comes in a can.

I began the evening with an Aberdeen Swizzle – house citrus-infused gin and coconut crème, beautifully garnished with a basil leaf. It had the dryness you’d expect of gin, but the citrus contributed a natural sweetness; the coconut was subtle but gave the drink a certain smoothness, and the pleasant aroma of basil was evident in every sip.

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Kat’s selection, the Chairman’s Painkiller, was the most visually striking, served in a funky-looking ceramic tiki cup. Made with Chairman’s spiced rum, coconut crème, and orange, it was a creamy concoction with a subdued tropical flair.

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Stoddard’s may make the best Moscow Mule in town, but Shōjō puts its distinct stamp on the drink by swapping vodka for citrus-infused gin and using a house-made ginger beer. The resulting Gin Gin Mule, as Kelly discovered, is a worthy variation on a classic, with the citrus and a little simple syrup mellowing out what could have been a harsh combination of ginger beer and gin.

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Tracy’s drink was probably the most elegant selection of the first round. The Lisboa is made with Oolong-infused gin, Lillet blanc, orange bitters, and grapefruit. At Justin’s suggestion, Tracy swapped out the gin for Oolong-infused vodka and seemed pretty happy with the result.

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As we sipped our drinks, we began perusing the menu. Aside from only serving remarkably fresh, locally sourced food, the chefs clearly aren’t playing by any strict culinary rules. A word like “fusion,” while applicable, doesn’t do Shōjō justice; combining French and Italian techniques with modern Asian cuisine, the menu is constantly in flux, depending on the availability of local ingredients. The results again distinguish Shōjō from so many of its neighbors. How else would you explain their offering turkey meatloaf with miso gravy as one of that evening’s specials?

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Turkey meatloaf? In Chinatown?

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French fries are another item you might not expect to see on a Chinatown menu; and even if they were an option…why would you get them? But as we began ordering appetizers, Shōjō’s duck fat hand-cut fries stood out as an enticing, if offbeat, option. Served with a creamy dipping sauce, they were hard to resist.Next up was barbecue pork rib, topped with a crisp Asian slaw. The meat was tender and fell right off the bone.

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Shrimp fritters were available on special, but they were going fast and Justin had to consult the chef before offering them to us. With a crunchy exterior and accompanied by a tangy chili sauce, I can see why they were in demand.

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With that we moved on to dinner. Tempting as the turkey meatloaf was, I opted for a different special – braised rabbit served with handmade tagliatelle, mustard white wine sauce, and smoked bacon. I don’t have rabbit that often, so I don’t have much to compare my entrée to, but it was tasty and tender (and yeah, pretty much tasted like chicken). But the pasta stole the show. Made on site, these were the thickest, richest noodles I’ve ever had.

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Also on special was a roasted half-chicken with smashed potatoes, smoked bacon, red wine sauce, and beech mushrooms. Tracy went for this and said the chicken pretty much tasted like rabbit.

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Kelly got honey barbecue pork ravioli, another creative combination of disparate elements. The flavor of the meat reminded me of marinated pork right off the grill; wrapped in more of that house-made pasta, it was delicious.

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Kat settled on steamed mussels in lemongrass broth, from the appetizer menu. In hindsight, I’m surprised Kelly didn’t get these, given her professed dislike for seafood and contradictory tendency to order it whenever we go out.

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Needless to say, a second round of Shōjō’s excellent cocktails was in order.

I was most intrigued by the Reiko Greene, made with Hendricks gin, green chartreuse, lime, and – get this – cucumber ice. Justin called it a “two-part drink,” because its complexion gradually changes as the cucumber ice melts. That’s if you sip it slowly, which was a challenge given how good it was even as a one-part drink. Sure enough, the flavor and character evolved as the cucumber slowly permeated the cocktail.

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Kelly got the Ding How cocktail, which is Shōjō’s take on a French 75. Made with Hendricks gin, lillet rose, bitters, simple syrup, and lemon juice, and finished with rose champagne, it was dry and effervescent with just a hint of sweetness.

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We also got to see the Shōjō bartenders shift into improvisational mode when Tracy shifted into diva mode and demanded a special cocktail be made just for her. Undaunted, the bartender crafted Tracy a drink with champagne, ginger, and an orange peel. Simple and refreshing, it calmed Tracy down and made me look forward to coming back and sitting at the bar, trying whatever new cocktails are on the menu, or just telling the bartenders what I like and seeing what they come up with. Judging by what I’ve seen by Shōjō already, I’m sure the results will be impressive.

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As we began wrapping things up, one of the managers, Brendan, came by to ask about our meals and to make sure Tracy didn’t have another “make me a drink” outburst. He told us more about his interesting restaurant, which has only been open since August but appears to be thriving. I sensed he and the staff had a lot of pride in Shōjō, and they should. As a one-of-a-kind bar in Chinatown, I hope it enjoys a bright future.

Last Call

You know what bugs me most about my complete lack of knowledge of where to go in Chinatown? The fact that everyone I talk to knows “some little place” that’s a hidden gem. I always hear “Oooh, I know a place in Chinatown that makes the best dim sum,” or “I know a place there that makes the best Vietnamese sandwiches.”

Well now I can finally chime in – I know a place in Chinatown that makes the best drinks.

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Shōjō not only finds a way to stands out in this busy neighborhood; it stands tall. If you’re looking for traditional Asian cuisine or colorful Polynesian cocktails, you won’t find them here. What you will find is an innovative approach that seamlessly combines elements of Japanese, Korean, and Taiwanese cooking, and doesn’t stop there. Even characterizing the food as Asian seems limiting; the menu might be better described as a collection of thoughtful, creative dishes tied together by a distinct Asian thread.

But more important than the type of the cuisine is how wonderfully fresh it all is. Relying only on locally available ingredients forces the chefs to stay creative, and the results are delicious, beautifully presented, and anything but predictable.

That same sense of freshness and creativity influences the cocktail menu as well. Little things, like infusing their liquors and crafting their own ginger beer, mean Shōjō’s bartenders are working with highly customized ingredients. As a result, even the simplest drink here is unique.

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The prices are totally reasonable. Our drinks were $10 each, which is standard for cocktails of that sort. Entrees ranged from $16 to $18, and the appetizers were between $6 and $8.

And as I mentioned, the service was outstanding. Justin was helpful and good-natured (he confessed to being the artistic force behind the Halloween decorations). Even though most of the tables were full by 8:45, we got the same level of attention as when we arrived at a much quieter hour. That, along with Shōjō’s peaceful ambience, made our evening in Chinatown casual and comfortable.

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And much better sharing a corner with a utility closet.

Address: 9A Tyler Street, Boston

Website:http://Shōjōboston.com/

Shopper’s Café

When it comes to the local sports scene, we New Englanders have been pretty blessed over the past 10 years or so. In fact, with three Lombardi trophies, two World Series titles, a Stanley Cup, an NBA championship, and a host of deep playoff runs across all four major pro sports, “spoiled” might be the more accurate word. Things feel a little different this fall. The Red Sox aren’t in the playoffs, and let’s face it – their season effectively ended sometime in July. But at least their season began, which is more than I can say for the Bruins, as yet another NHL lockout begins extinguishing the hockey season. At least we have the Patriots, who are off to a promising start, and the Celtics. (My interest in basketball is passive at best, but in a year with potentially no hockey, I’ll take what I can get.)

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With that in mind, I thought I’d start an occasional series on the best bars in which to watch a game. Now, “best” can be pretty subjective. If you’re the anxious owner of a fantasy football team and need to monitor eight games at once, you’ll naturally want a bar with NFL Sunday Ticket and a plethora of TVs. If you moved to Boston from Pittsburgh and are for some reason still a Pirates fan, you’ll need to find a bar that carries out-of-market baseball games. Or maybe you’re just really superstitious and know that if you don’t watch the game while sitting on a particular stool in a particular bar while wearing a particular shirt and drinking a particular beer, the home team will lose. (And on that note, New England fans, you have no idea how great your debt is to my tattered black Nike sweatshirt, which has guided the Pats to many critical victories over the years.)

It’s a combination of warm memories, friendly service, and a great viewing setup that make Shopper’s Café in Waltham my favorite sports bar.

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Whenever I mention it, the name elicits the same response – that’s a bar? Yes, it’s a bar, even if “Shopper’s Café” sounds more like the food court in a mall than a place to have a few beers. The moniker apparently dates back to a time when Moody Street was largely a retail district, and husbands would come in for a drink while their wives were out shoppin’ around. And when I say “dates back,” I mean it – Shopper's recently celebrated its 75th anniversary, and it's been family-owned for four generations.

In my opinion, Shopper’s is ideally outfitted for the sports-viewing experience. For starters, it’s big. There’s a long bar with about 16 seats, plus a few pub tables and a couple of booths in the immediate vicinity. Beyond that is a large dining area with about eight good-size wooden tables, five large booths, and another five pub tables. The bar and dining areas are somewhat divided, but the place is essentially one large, open room.

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And the best part? TVs galore.

No matter where you’re sitting, chances are you’ll have a pretty good view of one of Shopper’s’ 22 televisions. The dining area boasts 13 flat-screens of varying sizes, and there are nine more above and around the bar. And Shopper’s carries NFL Sunday Ticket, MLB Extra Innings, NHL Center Ice, and NCAA March Madness packages, so whatever game you’re looking for, you’ll have no trouble finding it.

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In fact, I might never have discovered Shopper’s Café were it not for their broad offering of out-of-market football games. First, let me make this clear – my family, Melissa, and I are all diehard Patriots fans. But a few years back, our cousin got a coaching job with the New Orleans Saints, and so we started casually rooting for the Saints as well. Our casual interest blossomed into a full-blown love affair after we visited our cousin in New Orleans, toured the Saints’ facilities, hobnobbed with coaches and players, and watched them destroy the New York Giants at the Superdome. We had a glorious long weekend in New Orleans, and it would be difficult say to whether Eli Manning or our livers absorbed the worse beating while there.

No football team will top the Patriots for us, but that unique experience made us Saints fans for life. Thus, after our trip, we had to find a place with NFL Sunday Ticket so we could watch the Saints and the Pats. That’s how we discovered Shopper’s, where we spent pretty much every Sunday that fall. And that’s where we were for Super Bowl XLIV, a special night when Shopper’s was packed, the Saints pummeled a different Manning, and pretty much everyone in New England became Saints fans for at least one night (Saints 31, Colts 17). Since then, Shopper’s has always held a special appeal for us, and that’s where you can find us most Sundays.

For the inaugural game of the 2012 NFL season, Kelly, Mario, Kat, and I arrived at Shopper’s around noon. Though it was still an hour until kickoff, about 20 other people were already there. A place like Shopper’s draws a lot of game-day regulars, so we saw some familiar faces; our waitress recognized us and welcomed us back, which made us feel right at home.

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Getting to Shopper’s early on Sunday is a good idea, especially if you’re planning to watch more than just the Pats. The staff usually chuckles at us as Kelly and I try out different tables to achieve the optimal viewing angle. Plus, oddly enough, there’s a table that’s unofficially reserved for a group of older gents who show up every week to watch the Cleveland Browns, so we always know that at least a few seats are spoken for before we even arrive.

Since noon on Sunday is still considered the brunch hour, we often get things under way with a Bloody Mary. Shopper’s makes a nice, spicy Bloody Mary that sets the stage for an afternoon of beer and wings.

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By 12:45, Shopper’s was bustling. There were about 30 people in the dining area, another 20 or so at the bar. Shopper’s always fills up on game day, but for the season opener, there was a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation. It was a beautiful day, the staff were all decked out in Pats gear, and they opened the big windows that look onto Moody Street, letting in lots of sunlight and warm, early autumn air.

We drained our Bloody Marys and quickly shifted to beer for the game. Shopper’s offers a pretty respectable beer list, with draft options like Baxter Stowaway IPA, Slumbrew Happy Sol, Long Trail, and Allagash White, among many others. But when you’re settling in for a three- to six-hour day of football, pitchers of Bud Light is the way to go.

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Plentiful cheap beer and multiple TVs are essential, but any sports bar worth its salt needs a menu overflowing with appetizers and comfort food. Shopper’s goes above and beyond. They’ve got all the game-day staples, like nachos, wings, and potato skins, along with a few unexpected options like crab rangoon and pork strips. (That reminds me – for any superstitious New Orleans fans reading this, please know that my strategic ordering and consumption of Shopper’s’ toasted raviolis, the specifics of which I will not detail here, helped propel the Saints to their Super Bowl victory; you’re welcome.) We started off with spinach and artichoke dip.

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As the Pats began their dismantling of the Tennessee Titans, we ordered up another pitcher and our traditional, must-have order – Cajun chicken wings. I don’t claim to be a wing connoisseur; I know some people take this subject very seriously. But Shopper’s’ Cajun wings are among my favorite wings anywhere. With a dry-rubbed mix of Cajun spices and a Ranch dip, I wolf these things down like they’re going out of style.

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Even beyond the snacks and munchies, Shopper’s offers a surprisingly extensive menu of burgers, wraps, entrees, pizza, and plenty of sandwiches – chicken sandwiches, steak sandwiches, regular ol’ sandwiches like Reubens and pastrami, and a “Pilgrim” sandwich made with turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. And the food is pretty good! I’m a sucker for the Bruiser Burger – big and juicy, coated in Cajun seasoning and topped with crumbled blue cheese, it’s my go-to whenever we’re staying at Shopper’s for the 4 p.m. game.

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I’m also partial to the Steak Monti, made with teriyaki-glazed steak tips, which Kelly got on our last outing.

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Shopper’s Café attracts football fans of all stripes, and this is a good thing. While Pats fans dominate the crowd, looking around the bar and seeing people wearing other teams’ shirts engenders a sense of community. Whenever I’m out of town during football season, I seek out a bar that’s showing the Pats, so I can relate. Being immersed in such a diversity of allegiances reminds me that even though we’re cheering for different teams, we all share that passion for the game. (Honestly, I’m not really that high-minded; this is just a little pep talk I give myself when I get stuck next to a table of Jets fans.)

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As I mentioned earlier, among the regulars are some Browns fans who seem to range in age from their late 60s to their 70s. What’s always amazed us about these guys – apart from their dedication to the hapless Browns – is that every week they have a table set aside for them, directly in front of the TV that shows the Browns game. I first noticed this when I came in one Sunday to an empty dining area, and the waitress said “sit anywhere…except that table over there.” Now, Shopper’s isn’t exactly the sort of place that takes reservations. So what gives?

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Under the auspices of the blog, I took the opportunity during week 1 to approach one of these gents and find out a little more about their weekly tradition. I spoke with Rich, and I can’t say I got a straight answer about how they finagle a dedicated table every week, but I suspect it has something to do with the sort of charm that only guys in their 70s can wield. I did, however, have an illuminating conversation with him about and his love for the Browns.

Surprisingly, Rich is a Browns fan who does not hail from Cleveland. Growing up in New England in the 1950s, he had two options for watching football on TV – the Cleveland Browns or the New York Giants. The Pats didn’t show up until later, and Rich was invested enough in the Browns that he wouldn’t switch his allegiance (and given the bumbling nature of the Pats in those days, I can’t say I blame him). Plus, Rich was there for the Browns’ golden years, and he cheerfully reminisced about watching pigskin immortals like Otto Graham, Jim Brown, and coach Paul Brown in their heyday. He spoke with grim resignation about “The Drive” and “The Fumble” in the 1980s, and of course, the Browns’ controversial move to Baltimore in the 1990s.

I asked Rich what his thoughts were on the Browns’ chances this season, and his response will resonate with any pre-2004 Red Sox fan: “I’m always optimistic.” He’ll need that optimism. During the opening ceremonies of week 1, Browns’ quarterback Brandon Wheeden got caught under a huge American flag as it was being unfurled and needed on-field officials’ assistance to emerge. Not exactly a harbinger of good tidings for long-suffering Browns fans. The team went on to author the kind of ghastly loss that only the Browns could, somehow intercepting the Eagles’ Michael Vick four times yet still managing to lose. But if he’s been carrying the torch this long, I doubt a game like that would deter a guy like Rich.

I enjoyed the conversation, and it gave me visions of, a few decades from now, being able to regale young ‘uns with stories of watching Tom Brady and the Patriots in their dominant glory years. We may be spoiled here in New England, but I’ll take it.

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For the countless Sunday afternoons I’ve spent at Shopper’s, I’d never actually been there at night until this past Wednesday. Melissa and I stopped in and found a completely different vibe. I suppose it’s no surprise – it was a cold, rainy Wednesday night, there were no Boston sports on TV, and the NLDS wasn’t exactly luring the masses. When we arrived at 7 p.m., there were about 10 people at the bar, and I got the impression they were regulars.

Since there was no need for a pitcher of cheap suds, I perused the craft beer options and settled on a Baxter’s Hayride Autumn Ale. It was crisp, hoppy, and well suited to the weather.

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Melissa got the Shopper’s Margarita, which puts a twist on the traditional version by adding cranberry and pineapple juice. It was an interesting combination – the tartness of the cranberry and the sweetness of the pineapple worked pretty well together. The drink as a whole was a refreshing match for Mel’s spicy Kickin’ Chicken sandwich, made with Cajun spices, jalapenos, Swiss cheese, and honey mustard.

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It took all of my restraint to not order my customary wings, but I figured this was a good opportunity to try something else for a change. I opted for the Reuben sandwich, which was well made and satisfying.

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And since no blog trip would be complete without a cocktail, I figured I’d give Shopper’s’ intriguing “Honey Manhattan” a whirl. Made with Wild Turkey American Honey, it was deceptively sweet up front, making it the kind of drink that could go down just a wee bit too easily – never a good thing when the alcohol in question is whiskey. I’ll stick with traditional Manhattans, but I do like checking out variations now and again.

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Coming to Shopper’s on a quiet weeknight broadened my perspective about a bar I was already immensely fond of. When there aren’t 60+ people cheering, yelling at TVs, and performing impromptu victory dances, the pride and personal touch you’d expect to find in a long-running family business is unmistakable. I sensed a real earnestness among the staff, and it makes Shopper’s feel not just like a good sports bar, but a true neighborhood gem.

Our bartender, Joey, was incredibly nice and took great care of us. He filled us in a bit on some of Shopper’s’ long history, including the fact that it burned down in 2006. They rebuilt it as the top-notch sports bar it is today, with gleaming hardwood floors, posters and memorabilia covering the walls, and all those TVs. Joey rattled off various siblings and cousins who work there, including our regular waitress. “Of course, we hire people who aren’t family,” he assured me. “But they become our family.”

I don’t doubt it.

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Last Call

I remember back during the 2004 ALCS, when the Red Sox were on the verge of completing one of the greatest comebacks in professional sports history, discussing with my friend Brian whether we would watch the game at his place or mine. Then he suggested we might watch Game 7 at a bar.

My response? HELL NO!!!

This was one of the most important games ever, and there was no way I was entrusting my fortunes to the vagaries of a crowded bar. What if we missed out on witnessing history because we didn’t have a good view of the TV? What if we were next to a table of yahoos who wanted to do a shot every time someone hit a foul ball? No, we had to watch at home, so I could focus (and change shirts if necessary).

How things have changed. Don’t get me wrong – I love watching sports from the comfort of my home, with my own customized selection of beer, snacks, and other amenities. But there’s much to be said for watching at a bar, getting caught up in the energy and intensity the home crowd, celebrating or commiserating with friends or complete strangers. And you don’t necessarily need a bar with dozen TVs; if it’s the right kind of place, one TV, a bowl of popcorn, a good game, and a steady supply of PBR might be just as satisfying.

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Shopper’s Café caters to casual and diehard sports fans with its TV setup, multiple sports packages, and overall spaciousness. But as I’ve learned, it’s a cool bar even if you’re not there to watch sports. The prices are a welcome change from what I normally plunk down in Boston. Sandwiches and burgers are all under $10, my Baxter’s was under $4, and our mixed drinks were about $7.

Whether it’s a chaotic Sunday or a laid-back weeknight, I’ve always found Shopper’s to be a fun, casual place. When a family can keep a place like this running for 75 years, you know they’re doing something right. Here’s to 75 more.

Address: 731 Moody Street, Waltham

Website:http://www.shopperspub.com/

Stoddard's Fine Food & Ale

Back when Boston BarHopper was in its infancy, and I’d talk with people about cool bars, craft cocktails, and the reasons why I was writing a blog, the establishment that was most consistently recommended to me was Davis Square’s Saloon. And with good reason – devoted to pre-Prohibition-era America, Saloon transports its customers back to the early 20th century with faithfully re-created drinks, food, and décor. I can understand people’s enthusiasm.

What is less clear is why I so rarely hear people raving about Stoddard’s – a Downtown Crossing bar that also pays homage to the American saloon era. And to great effect.

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Stoddard’s certainly isn’t obscure – on the few occasions I’ve been there, it’s been at least respectably busy, and sometimes totally packed. And Boston Magazine named Stoddard’s’ Moscow Mule one of Boston’s 30 best cocktails last year, so it’s not like the place has somehow gone unnoticed. I just don’t hear about it that often. And I know I’m not the only one – most people I mention Stoddard’s to either haven’t heard of it or are only vaguely familiar with it.

Maybe it’s the location. Nestled away on a Downtown Crossing side street, it’s not terribly visible. Or maybe it’s the name. “Stoddard’s” sounds kind of…stodgy. Old fashioned.

It’s old fashioned, alright. Similar in some respects to Saloon, Stoddard’s vividly recalls an age gone by. But while Saloon is painstakingly crafted to look like a bar from the turn of the century, Stoddard’s has the street cred to back up its historical milieu.

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Stoddard’s is housed in a building that dates back to the late 19th century. It survived the Great Boston Fire of 1872, which wiped out a huge swath of the downtown area, and was the site of various retail shops that sold, among other things, corsets, sewing machines, and cutlery. (In fact, Stoddard’s Cutlery, for which the bar is named, operates to this day in a Boston suburb.)

The people behind Stoddard’s are more than aware of their building’s long, colorful past, and have designed the bar – from the décor to the food to the drinks – with that history in mind. There are vestiges of turn-of-the-century Boston everywhere, along with specific nods to the building’s former tenants – which explains the framed corsets on the wall (originals from the shop that sold them) and the odd sewing machine here and there. Railings from the original Filene’s store in Boston cordon off various areas of the interior, and the foot rail at the bar is supposedly a piece of the original trolley track from Park Street station.

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As I would envision any late 19th century bar or restaurant to be, Stoddard’s is very dimly lit. The only natural light comes from a couple of windows near the front door, and the black wooden floor makes for a decidedly nocturnal atmosphere. Most of the lighting inside comes from, of all things, antique lampposts. Squint a little and you might even mistake them for the gaslight street lamps that illuminated Boston evenings in the 1800s.

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The lampposts aren’t the only remnants of a bygone era. The bartenders are nattily attired with vests and ties, recalling the more formal dress that was once standard. You might imagine the large wooden barrels on the floor to have once held whiskey or beer. And they double as makeshift tables, something you might have seen a few decades later in a speakeasy. The walls of exposed brick contribute to the classic appearance, and candles on the bar and tables evoke a sense of intimacy.

And then there’s the bar.

My friend John put it best: “The first time I came in here, I just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the bar, like a dork.”

Actually, there’s nothing dorky about it. The bar at Stoddard’s is spectacular. A vision. Imported from England, the bar itself is 30 feet long, with about 15 or 16 seats. Evenly spaced along its dark wooden surface are 20 shiny silver taps that hold Stoddard’s’ excellent selection of mostly microbrews.

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Behind it, a 15-foot-high mahogany structure, reaching from the floor to the top of the high tin ceiling, holds a vast array of liquor bottles. It makes for an impressive sight, to say the least. I wasn’t able to get a good picture of it, mainly because Stoddard’s is so dark. Even in good light, though, I doubt I could capture its grandeur; and it’s the sort of thing best experienced in person. In fact, everything about Stoddard’s seems to say “drinking here will be an experience.” And it is.

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John was one of the first people to tell me about Stoddard’s. Homebrewer and co-founder of the wildly successful Brew Dudes blog, John’s a beer aficionado who would be naturally drawn to a place like Stoddard’s, given the caliber of its selection and the beautiful presentation. You might remember him from my post on TRADE, where he closed out our fairly elegant dinner with a can of Pork Slap Ale.

John and I stopped in on an early-September day after work. The bar was pretty quiet when we got there around 5 p.m., but there were about 30 people in the bar area within the hour. As is his custom whenever the situation presents itself, John set his sights on the cask offerings. In addition to its 20 microbrews, Stoddard’s has up to five beers on cask at any given time, which is pretty uncommon around here (it’s generally considered a coup when a place has one cask-conditioned beer available). John went with Haverhill Commuter Ale, a light, crisp beer that set a nice tone for the evening.

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I had decided on my first drink even before I arrived. As I mentioned earlier, Stoddard’s’ Moscow Mule is lauded as one of the very best in the city. It’s no wonder why. The presentation alone is like a clinic in great cocktail making. The process starts with the bartender chipping away at a house-made ice block – another throwback to the old days. Then comes a classic copper cup, which keeps that hand-crushed ice intact and, of course, your drink nice and cold. Watching the exterior of the metal cup gradually frost over is one of the subtle delights of drinking a good cocktail. And of course, there’s the drink itself. I enjoy Moscow Mules, but I’ve always found that if the mix is even slightly off, the sharpness of the ginger beer can really overpower the flavor. Stoddard’s version was perfectly balanced – Russian Standard vodka, top-quality ginger beer, and just enough lime. Without question, the best I’ve ever had.

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One pleasantly strong round in, and it was time to check out the dinner menu. Not surprisingly, the food menu is stocked with traditional American favorites – chicken pot pie, steak, pork loin, and a few seafood offerings. Out of sheer amusement, we considered ordering the “pot of pickles” on the appetizer menu, and we were intrigued by the ballotine of Vermont rabbit – boneless rabbit stuffed with rabbit mousse and wrapped in house bacon. In the end, we played it fairly safe. John ordered chicken, which he said reminded him of the kind his mom used to make. (With a little prodding, I confirmed that this was a compliment.)

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I went with the Stoddard’s burger. Made with fresh ground Meyer Ranch beef and topped with aged cheddar cheese, it was an excellent, generously sized burger.

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Meanwhile, we kept exploring the extensive cocktail menu. Stoddard’s separates their drinks into three sections – Classics, Contemporaries, and Puritans (nonalcoholic), and each drink has a date to indicate the year or decade in which it was most popular. True to historical form, Stoddard’s draws inspiration for their drinks from the quintessential guide to cocktail making – Jerry Thomas’s “How to Mix Drinks, or The Bon Vivant’s Companion,” first published in 1862. The recipes have been updated a bit, by necessity, but when you look at a cocktail menu and see terms like “slings” and “flips,” it’s clear that someone’s gone to great lengths to ensure that the character and essence of saloon-era mixology is not forgotten.

Good friend of the blog that he is, John went with the most intense drink he could find – the Zombie. It was a potent mix of Appleton rum, Demerera rum, absinthe, 151 proof rum, grapefruit, Falernum, grenadine, “Don’s secret mix,” and Stoddard’s own house-made bitters. Just watching the bartender mix up this concoction was a treat. The result was sweet and strong, with a pleasant spice that we couldn’t quite identify. I’m guessing that had something to do with the aforementioned “secret mix.” We asked our bartender, Dan, if he’d divulge the secret, but he wasn’t having any part of that.

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I opted for a Fogcutter – white rum, gin, brandy, lemon, lime, and simple syrup. A drink that combines gin and brandy might sound pretty intense, but the citrus flavors made it seem surprisingly light. Like the Zombie, the Fogcutter is the sort of drink you’d typically see on the menu at a Chinese restaurant. But John appraised Stoddard’s’ version as “much better than that; it doesn’t have the burn of alcohol,” and I got the sense he was speaking from experience. A painful experience.

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We closed things out with a couple of beers. John ordered one of my all-time favorites – Gritty’s Black Fly Stout. Any bar that has this on draft is a winner in my book, and Stoddard’s serves it on nitro; as if it could get any better. And since I wanted to try one of the cask-conditioned beers, I opted for Harpoon Summer. It was the first time I’d ever had my favorite summer beer on cask. Well balanced and not overly citrusy, I treated it as an unofficial farewell to summer.

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Before we left, Stoddard’s drink coordinator, Jamie, came by to introduce himself. He offered us samples of Founders Breakfast Stout, a keg of which they’d just tapped earlier that day. It’s a rich imperial stout with notes of chocolate and coffee, and Jamie’s exuberance at having it on draft was understandable. He called it “a mouthful of awesomeness”; I might not have phrased it as such, but I wouldn’t disagree.

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Needless to say, any bar with a beer and cocktail selection as extensive as Stoddard’s’ requires a couple of return trips. One thing I learned on my subsequent visits is that for a place I tend not to hear a lot about, Stoddard’s attracts quite a crowd. I’ve been lucky to even find a seat on the couple of times I’ve gone back. Fortunately, it’s a cool experience even if you don’t find yourself sitting at that magnificent bar. Standing beneath a lamppost, resting my beer on a wooden barrel, surrounded by exposed brick, I always get the sensation that I’m drinking outside when I’m here. Looking up at the balconies where they store kegs of beer kind of makes the place feel like an alley (a really nice alley, of course).

I’d love to give you a rundown of all different the beers I’ve tried at Stoddard’s, but I rarely get past the Gritty’s Black Fly Stout on nitro. I make no apologies for that. But I have managed to work my way through some of the cocktails.

As a lover of Mai Tais, I was eager to try Stoddard’s take on this Polynesian-style classic. Served in a tiki glass that gave me visions of Greg Brady falling off a surfboard during an incident-plagued trip to Hawaii, and garnished with a lemon peel and a Luxardo cherry, the Mai Tai was delicious. And that hand-chipped ice just seems to make every drink better.

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Next up was the more serious Savoy Blackthorne, made with John L. Sullivan whiskey, dry vermouth, bitters, absinthe. I was a little skeptical; I have an uneasy relationship with both dry vermouth and absinthe. But the Savoy was a surprisingly smooth, slow-sipping drink that felt well suited to the atmosphere.

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Throwing back weighty cocktails like that calls for a little sustenance. Deviled eggs? Don’t mind if I do! Stoddard’s’ deviled eggs are pretty good and surprisingly numerous; most places just give you three halves, but here you get three full eggs. I held off on the pot of pickles, although I giggle every time I see it on the menu.

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And of course, because I can scarcely resist ordering cocktails with interesting names, I closed out my last visit with a drink called Blood of My Enemies. An appropriately red-hued cocktail that combined Rhum Clément, aperol, grenadine, blood orange, bitters, and lemon peel, it was sweet and sharp with a nice bite.

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As I sipped it, I pictured a mountain, with me on top, lemon yellow sun, arms raised in a V...

Last Call

Stoddard’s has so many of the qualities I love in bars. It’s dark, a little hidden, and steeped in one of my favorite eras of American history. More importantly, their attention to detail is exceeded by an obvious love for top-notch beer and cocktails. The beer selection, which rotates frequently, is clearly chosen by someone with an understanding and appreciation for high-quality microbrews. And with regard to cocktails, the bartenders really know their stuff and clearly enjoy their craft.

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The food prices at Stoddard’s are by no means cheap, but you don’t have to let them break the bank, either. John’s chicken was $19, and most of the other entrees are about $20. My burger was $14; that’s a little high, but I admit it was a pretty big burger and a delicious one. Appetizers are very reasonable, though. I spent $4 for a generous portion of deviled eggs, and there are a couple of other inexpensive bar bites. Most of the other appetizers are $10 or so, and with options as varied as beef tartare and lobster scallion hush puppies, they’re definitely worth a try. If you’re in the mood for something more basic, a dozen wings will run you a very fair $10.

Drink prices are right on the money. Most of the beers are $6, but you can get a PBR for $3 if you’re feeling especially thrifty. Cocktails range from $9 to $12, most averaging about $10.

There’s a lot to discover here. Whether it’s a new craft beer or a very old cocktail, every drink at Stoddard’s is made or poured with tremendous care. And from the opulent bar to the repurposed relics from Boston’s past, a trip to Stoddard’s is almost like a history lesson.

With drinks!

Address: 48 Temple Place, Boston

Website:http://stoddardsfoodandale.com/

Bear With Me...

Dear subscribers, readers, visitors, devoted fans, vocal critics, and barhoppers everywhere: After months of deliberation, hand-wringing, and procrastination, I have decided to give Boston BarHopper an upgrade.

First, the good news – the final product will have a whole new look and feel. The content will be organized differently, there’ll be some cool new features, and overall, I think it will make for an enhanced reading and barhopping experience.

The bad news? I’m the equivalent of an NFL replacement referee when it comes to the technical side of blogging.

So I’ll ask for your patience if you get test posts sent to your e-mail (which happened earlier today…oops), or if you log on and the site is down, or you find the text presented in wingdings. I might also have to skip a week of posting. But whatever the problem is, rest assured that I’ll be taking regular breaks from my fits of pounding the desk and swearing to get it resolved.

My hope is that BBH Mach II will be up and running within the next week or so. In the meantime, thanks for reading!

Cheers,

Matt

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Orinoco

I don’t have much in terms of rigid criteria when it comes to choosing places to write about for this blog. I operate under a few basic guidelines. First, the subject of my review has to have a physical bar that I’d be willing to sit at for an evening of nothing more than drinks. After all, this is Boston BarHopper, not Boston RestaurantReviewer. Second, I prefer to avoid anything resembling a chain; the way I see it, the more locations a bar or restaurant has, the more its overall character diminishes. Of course, there will always be exceptions.

Harvard Square’s Orinoco does not have a bar. It also has two other locations, in the South End and Brookline. But when you invite me to a complimentary party on a picture-perfect evening in September with a roasted pig, mouthwatering Venezuelan hors d’oeuvres, and lots of sangria and beer…well, I suppose I can relax my standards.

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Bringing the culture and cuisine of Latin America – specifically, Venezuela – to Cambridge, Orinoco opened its Harvard Square restaurant in January 2012. After eight months, they decided it was time to host a bonche (party!) for their customers and neighbors on their back patio. The reason? Manager Martha Garcia told me that whenever a new Orinoco opens, the management hosts an open house. “It’s a way to introduce ourselves to the community,” she said.

Quite an introduction.

My friends Mario and Ivys, who always manage to find awesome places like Orinoco and Tres Gatos, had dinner here with Kelly a month or so ago, scored themselves an invitation to the bonche, and passed the offer on to me. Who am I to turn down a party on a weeknight? But this wasn’t any ol’ fiesta. The main attraction? A traditional pig roast.

You know how often I go to pig roasts? About as often as I go to Venezuela. No way I was missing this.

Just approaching Orinoco gives you the feeling that you’re headed to someone’s backyard for a cookout. The restaurant is on JFK Street but is a little set back and out of sight; you walk between a couple of buildings to get there, which gives it kind of a home-y feel. The bonche was held on Orinoco’s gorgeous back patio, which is normally set up with tables for what must be a delightful outdoor dining experience.

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Mario, Ivys, Kelly, Kat, and I arrived around 6 p.m.; the festivities weren’t yet in full swing, but importantly, there was no line at the drink table (yet). The beverage options were ideally suited to a late-summer, Latin American-themed party: mojitos (a treat, since they’re not usually available at Orinoco’s Harvard location), sangria, and a couple of beers – Negra Modelo and Pacifico.

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Even though it was quiet when we arrived, I could sense that a special night of revelry was ahead. Nothing about the atmosphere made me think I was at a bar or restaurant; it truly felt like a casual, well-planned backyard party. The stone floor, lush greenery, a running fountain, and strung lighting gave the patio the look of a grand garden and made me feel like a guest – not a customer.

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As we sipped our drinks, the heavenly smell of charcoal and barbecued pork wafted through the air, equal parts teasing and torture. But good hosts that they are, Orinoco wasn’t going to let us starve, treating us to some of their appetizers.

First up was a spicy ceviche. Even Kelly, who claims to not care for seafood (yet repeatedly gets it while we’re out), could not resist. The ceviche was followed by maracuchitos – queso paisa wrapped in sweet, fried plantains.

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I love plantains on their own. Throw in some cheese? Delicioso.

And it just kept getting better. The non-pork-related highlight of the night was Orinoco’s datiles – bacon-wrapped dates with an almond in the middle. ¡Ay, dios mio!

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Honestly, I’ve never been a huge fan of dates; but the list of things that I won’t eat when wrapped in bacon is very short. (You know what I loathe? Olives. I wonder if I would find bacon-wrapped olives palatable.) The smoky bacon, the nuttiness of the date, the distinctness of the almond…they were packed with flavor and I had to restrain myself from grabbing two handfuls from the serving tray.

The patio began filling up over the next hour or so, with excited guests trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive pig.

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Meanwhile, our hosts kept plying us with apps. Tequenos – guayanes cheese wrapped in a crisp dough, with chipotle ketchup – were like upscale mozzarella sticks. And while I didn’t get the proper Spanish name, chicken salad served on a bread-like cracker was delicious and artfully presented.

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Truth be told, I would have been fine just with the snacks. But that’s not why we were here. No, hors d‘oeuvres alone would not placate the restless masses. The anticipation gradually swelled to a crescendo, and soon a manic chant of “Bring on the pig! Bring on the pig!” broke out (not really).

At last, fashionably late and with great fanfare, the star of the show emerged.

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Look at that bad boy! Has an animal ever looked so happy to be devoured by 200 guests?

El cerdo was greeted with applause, excitement, and a long line. I have to admit – after three weeks of eating and writing about tripe, haggis, and head cheese, it was comforting to be eating a meat that people were actually clamoring for.

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The line stretched throughout the patio, culminating at a table serving yuca, black beans, salad, and of course, the roasted pig. The meat was well worth the wait – tender, juicy, and delicious, and no one could stop talking about how incredibly spiced it was.

By then the sun had gone down, the stars were out, and we had a full-on bonche on our hands. All that was missing from the festive vibe was the steamy South American climate, but I heard no complaints about the perfectly temperate September air. People mingled, chatted, danced to salsa music, talked about how good the food was. I was in no hurry for the night to end, but when it finally did, I felt like I was leaving a big neighborhood party.

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I stopped in on the following night for a quick chat with Martha (who not only remembered me but greeted me like an old friend) and to get a better look at the place. Orinoco’s interior feels small, but it’s actually rather spacious – probably about 20 tables or so. It has an authentic, rustic look, with classic old chairs and family pictures on the wall.

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The dark, candlelit atmosphere could make for an intimate evening of sharing small plates and a bottle of good Spanish wine, but if the previous night was any indication, things could just as easily be festive and lively. And as soon as I walked in, the salsa music that was playing immediately brought back the magic of the bonche.

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Orinoco offers a full, rich menu of traditional Venezuelan cuisine. Several dishes offer the shredded beef and plantains that Venezuelan cuisine is famous for, like Pabellon Criollo, which the menu calls “Venezuela’s most folkloric dish.” I hear the empanadas are a big hit, and there are always some tempting weekend specials.

I opted for a couple of arepas, which are Venezuelan corn pocket sandwiches. “Domino” was made with black beans and Palmizulia cheese, and “Pelua” was made with Edam cheese and that delicious stewed, shredded Venezuelan beef.

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Both were delicious and surprisingly filling. But I have to admit – the accompanying dipping sauce stole the show. Made of cilantro, garlic, parsley, and olive oil, the sauce had a zing that further brought out the flavors of the arepas. I could seriously drink this straight, like out of a shot glass.

Speaking of shots, Orinoco’s alcoholic offerings are limited to beer and wine, though they also serve sangria. (Only the Brookline location has a full liquor license.) Not that I’m complaining – the sangria is full-bodied and refreshing, made with a secret spice (cinnamon?) that gives it a unique character. Aside from that, I never mind a good Negra Modelo, which nicely complemented all the spices in my arepas.

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As if I didn’t already feel like a welcomed guest, Martha generously treated me to quesillo, sort of a Venezuelan version of flan. Topped with strawberries and blackberries, and with hints of coffee, it was sweet conclusion to my meal.

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Last Call

Orinoco seems right at home in an area as rich and diverse as Harvard Square. And what better way to be a good neighbor than to host big, backyard party? The bonche was a swinging success, and a great idea on Orinoco’s part – I’m not sure when or if I would have found the place were it not for their event, but I’ll certainly return.

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I don’t know much about Venezuelan cuisine, so I can’t vouch for the authenticity of the food. But all of Orinoco’s locations are run by native Venezuelans, so that’s got to count for something. I certainly enjoyed the appetizers and my arepas. And they sure know how to roast a pig.

Perhaps best of all, Orinoco is surprisingly affordable. Most of the entrees are around $15, but you can make a pretty satisfying meal out of the empanadas (under $9) and antojitos (little cravings). Those irresistible datiles are $7, and the arepas average about $6. A glass of sangria for $7 isn’t bad, and my Negra Modelo was a very reasonable $4.75.

I don’t know whether Orinoco will ever be hosting another bonche of such grandeur, but I feel fortunate to have been there. On their website, Orinoco says their goal is to effect a “neighborhood-focused dining tradition that is casual, lively and fun.” On at least one night in September, they succeeded in grand fashion.

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Address: 56 JFK Street, Cambridge

Website:http://www.orinocokitchen.com/

Belly Wine Bar

When I think of a wine bar, I envision something dark, stuffy, and deadly serious. A very fru fru bar, maybe in a hotel, with servers dressed to the nines and displaying a thinly veiled air of condescension. I see lush burgundy rugs, table lamps, maybe leather sofas and fancy cocktail tables. It would probably have a French name, like Vin Cache. Maybe that’s an unfair assessment, born out of how infrequently I find myself in wine bars. But let’s face it – wine is sophisticated. If a bar devotes itself to wine, I’d expect something very polished. A small plate of grandiloquence and a full carafe of pretension.

But when a wine bar decides to call itself “Belly,” assumptions are best left at the door.

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“We wanted it to be playful,” said the bartender, of the unusual moniker. “Like the wine list, which is kind of out there.”

Wait – a wine bar wants to be playful? Not highfalutin? And what’s with an off-the-wall wine list – can’t I just come in and order a glass of Merlot?

I imagine you could. Belly has something on the order of 120 wines, so I’m sure they can accommodate your blandness if you insist. But at a bar that strives to be anything other than ordinary, why would you yearn for dullness?

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From the people who brought you the Blue Room (right next door) and Central Bottle (just down the street), Belly Wine Bar opened this week in Kendall Square and is everything you wouldn’t expect a wine bar to be. Forget dark and staid. Belly is a bright room that balances a funky, modern look with a casual, laid-back feel. Of all things, what you’ll probably notice first is the wild black-and-white pattern of the tiled floor.

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Hand-painted by an Italian company that had never before shipped an order to the United States, the tiles would be an assault on the eyes if not offset by a plain, dark brown ceiling with wooden beams, and complemented by the warm, white and light-green color scheme. Cool stonework and exposed brick on the walls contribute to a comfortable, earthy atmosphere.

If the wine bar I envisioned earlier was akin to a fancy den, Belly feels more like a kitchen – it’s small, and in addition to the warmth and brightness, a long, rectangular table with 10 chairs occupies the center of the room, with three smaller tables and few round ones on the far wall.

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A table in the back artfully displays the cheeses that any good wine bar would offer. The bar itself is square with nine seats and an elegant, white marble top.

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I stopped in on Belly’s opening night at about 5:30 and again the night after. Opening night started off quietly – just one or two customers and me. But you could tell it was something special; I felt like I was sharing in a culminating moment that followed untold hours of preparation and anticipation. I got to meet the owner, Nick, who runs Belly with his wife, Liz. He’s a very nice guy whose enthusiasm was as obvious as it was contagious – there was almost an unbridled glee among the employees. No fancy waiters in dark suits here. Just some casual people who are pretty excited about opening a wine bar.

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The quiet start gave me a chance to talk to the bartender, Fanny, a veteran mixologist and oenophile who was only too happy to expound upon Belly’s wines, cocktails, food, philosophy, and pretty much anything else I asked about. And it’s a good thing, too, because I opened the menu and barely knew where to start. Belly’s menu consists of wine, cheese, salumi, charcuterie, and words that are hard to pronounce. The wines are organized not only by color but under offbeat headings like “Rocks in Your Mouth” and “Size Matters.”

Now I love wine, but I’m no connoisseur, so I asked Fanny to suggest something. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when she opened with a curveball – “Do you want red, white, or orange?”

Orange? Dude, we’re talking about wine, not Crush soda.

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Sure enough, Belly offers a selection of “orange” wines. I learned that orange wines are dry wines made from white wine grape varieties that have spent some time soaking in the grape skins, giving the wine an orange hue and contributing more tannins. The result is a white wine with a bit of red wine character – or, as Fanny said, “white wine for red wine lovers.” Fortunately, I love both. She suggested a Radikon “Slatnick,” 2009; and sure enough, it did almost taste like a white/red hybrid. More body than I’d expect from a white, but less bite than a red.

Accompanying my wine was a small dish of taralli – traditional Italian wine biscuits. Fanny told me they’re prepared similarly to bagels (boiled before baked), which makes them light, buttery, and highly addictive. They made for good munching while I pondered my next wine.

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After my orange wine, it was time for some red. Again relying on Fanny’s good judgment, I got a Joseph Drouhin Brouilly. It was a big tasting wine, with shades of raspberry and blackberry. I also detected the unmistakable hints of a wine buzz.

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Now what would wine be without cheese? (Honestly, I’d have to say it’s pretty good even on its own, but I digress.) From what I’m told, the cheeses are curated by the cheesemonger at Central Bottle to match the wines. The eight cheese varieties are not listed by name, but by “character,” with options like “Fresh,” “Earth,” “the Blues,” and “Funk.”

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Bring on the funk!

In this case, “funk” was a whole milk cow cheese from Connecticut. It was delightfully sharp and perfectly complemented by fresh raw honey, fruity jam, and two types of crostini – one savory, one sweet.

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With red and orange under my belt, it was high time for a white. Fanny asked if I wanted something clean and crisp – qualities one would normally associate with a white wine – or something funky. I’d already gone the funky route with the cheese, and I figured there was no turning back. So I funked it up with Montlouis Sur Loire, Weisskopf “Le Rocher des Violettes,” 2009. I liked it; definitely an unusual flavor and mouthfeel for a white. In place of the oaky flavor you might expect was a certain minerality…which I guess is why it fell under the heading “Rocks in Your Mouth.”

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Now if Belly’s wine options strike you as a little unorthodox, wait until you see their food menu. You can choose from “snacks” like blanquette of rabbit offal (oh hoo hoooo! nice try, but I learned my lesson after the haggis incident, thank you very much), marrow bones, and pate de campagne, to name a few. The “salumi” section offers morcilla fresca, duck breast, and soprasetta, among others. And there’s “charcuterie” like rabbit rillettes and foie gras terrine.

I started with a snack, a word that does little justice to what I chose – lamb bacon and eggs.

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Ever seen bacon and eggs look like that? I didn’t think so. Made from lamb meat and topped with shaved egg yolks, the bacon was crispy, light, and delicious. A red wine would seem to be the best match here, but I was surprised by how much the white I was drinking brought out the flavor.

Admittedly, beyond duck breast and foie gras, I wasn’t all too familiar with the rest of the menu. So I again turned to Fanny (hey, at least I picked out the snack on my own), who suggested something from the charcuterie menu…

Head cheese.

The term alone sounds pretty gross, even if you don’t know what head cheese is. It quickly goes from gross to disgusting once you find out.

Despite what any logical person may deduce from the name, head cheese is not actually cheese. That’s a rather unnerving bit of trivia, is it not? Because let’s face it – when you use the word “cheese” to describe something that is not in fact cheese, you’re usually not talking about something good.

No, head cheese is jellied meat made from the head of a pig or cow. Oh, but it may also contain parts of the animal’s tongue, heart, or feet, so you might get a little variety. (I could explain this in further detail, but I’m afraid you’d stop reading.) Fanny acknowledged “there’s definitely several different textures going on in there,” but reassured me that “it’s not brains or anything.” Yeah, there’s a ringing endorsement.

I’d like to pause here and raise my glass, a bit wistfully, to the good old days of, say, a few months ago, when the raison d’être of this blog was highlighting the better qualities of a given bar and saying a few words about whatever beer and cocktails I had when I was there. I’m now in my third consecutive week of trying meats that society has by and large rejected. I wonder if, somewhere along the line, I got off track. Eating tripe, haggis, and head cheese isn’t winning me any awards or even garnering me any praise. No, all I get is people sucking in their breath, shivering, and scrunching up their faces like an audience watching an incredibly gory slasher film. I suppose it’s a good thing I derive such a deep sense of satisfaction from that reaction; otherwise I might have to get back to basics.

But enough with the melodrama. The head cheese was, believe it or not, really good!

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The exterior was crispy, and as advertised, the meat inside had a varied texture. It was served with crostini and a small bowl of mustard and vegetables, and the flavor reminded me of pork belly.

Of my three recent adventurous meat orders, this is the only one I’d look forward to getting again (the tripe at Tres Gatos would be second, as long as I was splitting it with someone; the haggis would be a very distant third).

Anyway, while awaiting the arrival of the head cheese, I figured I needed a little liquid insurance in case it was as bad as it sounded. Aware that Fanny’s cocktail knowledge probably exceeded even her wine smarts – after all, she personally designed Belly’s cocktail list – I told her I was a Manhattan fan and was looking for something in that neighborhood. She recommended the Vieux Carré, a classic cocktail that originated in New Orleans. Belly’s recipe was traditional and faithful – Old Overholt rye whiskey, Pierre Ferrand Ambre cognac, Cocchi Vermouth di Torino, Bénédictine, Peychaud's bitters, and Angostura bitters.

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Outstanding. This wasn’t the first Vieux Carré I’ve ever had, but it was without question the best. Each sip was packed with flavor, yet it had a very simple, smooth finish.

Belly’s list of specialty cocktails is small but, like everything else here, creative and playful. I couldn’t resist ordering the Silver Bullet. No, not that Silver Bullet. Belly’s Silver Bullet is a simple mix of gin, Kummel, fresh lemon juice, and perfectly crushed ice.

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For so few ingredients, this was intensely flavorful, which was probably the result of the Kummel. I’d never encountered this liqueur before; its caraway/cumin flavor gave the Silver Bullet a truly unique character. It was almost like a very sophisticated lemonade that you had to drink slowly. Very slowly.

Things were picking up when I was leaving, and there was a bigger crowd when I stopped in on the following night. As can be expected of any newly opened bar or restaurant with an unorthodox menu, I saw customers walk in with a sense of quiet curiosity and maybe even hesitation. But on both nights, I noticed that tentativeness gradually giving way to the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.

Again – not what I’d expect of a wine bar.

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Last Call

Belly aims to be unusual, but it does so with a natural grace. From the décor to the wine to the charcuterie, everything here is deliberate – but none of it feels contrived.

It’s rare that I sit at a bar and rely solely on the bartender’s food and drink suggestions, but I felt completely comfortable doing so. And Fanny, with a genuine enthusiasm for her craft, seemed more than willing to impart her knowledge. I doubt Belly will ever be as quiet as it was in those first few hours, so maybe I won’t get a chance to do that again; but I feel fortunate to have had the experience.

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Belly isn’t cheap, but if you’re going out for an evening of wine and fancy cheeses, you probably weren’t planning on an inexpensive night anyway. The wines vary in price, but you have the option of a two-ounce pour or a five-ounce. The smaller pours range from $3.50 to $14, and most are $5 or $6. The full pours I got were $9, but again, that’s highly variable depending on your selection. The cocktails were $11 apiece, which is fairly typical for drinks of that sort. The snacks, salumi, and charcuterie are anywhere from $5 to $14, so if you are watching your wallet, you’ve got some flexibility.

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Belly is an invitation to adventure, and only a fool would decline. If you’re a wine lover, you’ll probably revel in the unconventional offerings. If you’re more of a casual wine drinker, you’ll likely come out knowing a lot more about wine than you did when you went in. And if you know nothing about wine, or if the food is wholly unfamiliar, then it’s an opportunity to experiment in an environment that is anything but intimidating. The staff are very friendly, happy to explain everything on the menu, and eager for you to try the intriguing options they’ve clearly worked hard to offer you.

Address: One Kendall Square, Cambridge

Website:http://www.bellywinebar.com/