May 10, 2013

Sidebar

May 10, 2013

Graduating college and getting a job. For most of us, it’s an inevitable rite of passage. It’s a fun time, an exciting time; but more than anything, it’s a period of transition. You might find yourself working in the city, adapting to the rigors and routines of a 9 to 5 job and the responsibilities of forging through life on your own. You’ve got new friends, coworkers, and a wealth of opportunities ahead.

You’ve also got a city’s worth of exciting bars to explore. The thing is, just because you swapped your faded jeans and t-shirt for some more professional-looking duds doesn’t mean you’ve fully adopted new drinking habits. You’ve only recently emerged from a world of Rolling Rock, keg stands, and Jello shots. A cocktail to you is rum and Coke, with a lime on special occasions. You might even think white zinfandel is a drinkable wine.

So yes, you might look the part of a young business professional, but when you’re meeting friends after work, places like TRADE or Scholars aren’t quite your scene just yet. Plus, you don’t have mom and dad to bail you out anymore when funds are low. Welcome to Sidebar.

A Boston dive bar that straddles the border of the downtown area and the Financial District, Sidebar also sits at the junction between your college mindset and your evolving identity as a responsible, gainfully employed adult. It has all the trappings of the typical city dive bar – no-frills attitude and décor, a couple of arcade games, and most importantly, cheap beer – yet its location draws a hearty after-work crowd from the countless businesses in the area.

So when the clock strikes 5, you tend to see a lot of people with their suit coat in one hand and a $2 Bud Light in the other.

Sidebar has two separate rooms, each with a markedly different feel, but united by the rust-colored tile floor that seems to come standard in a Boston dive bar. One side is your standard, straightforward barroom – a long, 20-seat bar in a narrow, dimly lit room, with about five tables and a couple of booths.

Some of the walls have exposed brick, others are coated with fading blue paint and years’ worth of scuff marks. Neon signs, Guinness mirrors, and posters provide a little ambience.

The other side reminds me of an on-campus college bar or the common room of a frat house. It’s a big, open room with wood-paneled walls, maybe 10 tables and booths, and a small bar. Video games like Big Buck Safari and Golden Tee, along with a booming jukebox, tend to make this the more boisterous of the two sides.

Sidebar’s always been an occasional destination for me. The location can’t be beat; it’s close to my office and on the way to the T, so it’s a trusty spot for an after-work beverage. I stopped in a few weeks back to meet my friend John, of Brew Dudes fame. I took a seat on the quieter of the two sides and enjoyed a Jameson on the rocks while I waited for him, watching as the bar almost completely filled up by 5:15.

When John arrived, we grabbed a wobbly table and began discussing beer options. Sidebar’s draft selection is pretty average – Sam Adams, Blue Moon, Guinness, Red Hook, that sort of thing. But it’s the $7 pitchers of Bud Light that have helped this place build such a devoted following. There are bars nearby where you can spend $7 for a single beer, let alone a pitcher. I would have gotten one – it’s sort of obligatory here – but John is an aficionado of microbrews and a producer of excellent homebrew; I couldn’t in good conscience ask him to go for BL. We went with Sam Adams Alpine Spring instead.

That led to a lengthy discussion about how disappointed we were that Sam Adams began selling their “spring” beer in January. Last I checked, January is the dead of winter. It’s bad enough that stores put up Christmas displays in September; must we rush everything? Couldn’t we have enjoyed some strong winter ale during the winter? Adding insult to injury, Boston Beer Company founder Jim Koch, in response to widespread criticism of Sam’s season-skipping, cheerily offered a flaccid defense of the decision by saying that they released the beer early because New Englanders tend to look forward to the end of winter. Huh? Yes, in the winter, most of us do indeed yearn for warmer weather; but drinking a spring beer in January does not cause snow to melt and flowers to bloom. I’d drink Red Stripe year-round if I thought it would result in a Caribbean climate in New England. Sam Summer’s out now; grab yourself a pint before June, when I’m sure they’ll start selling Octoberfest.

<End Rant>

Anyway, the Alpine Spring was good. The wobbliness of our table put the pitcher at constant risk for spilling in catastrophic fashion, but that just added an element of adventure to the evening.

While Sidebar is already somewhat unusual in that it draws such a predominantly white-collar crowd, it further distinguishes itself from some of the area’s other lovable dives by virtue of the fact that it offers food. And the menu is surprisingly extensive, with broad selections of sandwiches, pizzas, wraps, salads, a few house specialties, and more. Maybe that doesn’t sound like anything extraordinary; but at bars like Beacon Hill Pub and Sullivan’s Tap, the only edible goods tend to come from a vending machine. One doesn’t go to a place like this and expect to see a variety of, say, panini sandwiches, but there they are – meatball panini, veggie panini, roast turkey panini, and so on. John opted for the chicken pesto panini, topped with provolone cheese.

The list of burgers features an astounding 15 options, with a tempting-sounding teriyaki burger and a deep-fried burger topped with bacon, BBQ sauce, and cheese, which may well have been worth the few months it would take off my life had I ordered it. I settled on the blackened bleu burger, coated in Cajun spice and topped with blue cheese. It was a pretty good burger! Nothing outstanding, but definitely satisfying.

John and I hung out for a while after dinner. The post-work crowd thinned out after 7 or so, making it a pretty mellow environment for killing time, chewing the fat, and watching whatever games were on one of the five TVs. We discussed the Sox, the merits and drawbacks of Led Zeppelin’s “Presence” album, and the emergence of excellent craft hard ciders, like those made by Downeast and Bantam. Since we were on the subject, I got an Angry Orchard to close out the night.

I would call it more of a hard apple juice. The fact that you can see right through it in this picture might tell you something.

Since no review of Sidebar would be complete without a trip to its other side, I returned a week or so later and settled in with a Narragansett. If the more conventional side of Sidebar is where you meet a friend for a drink, the second side is where you head with a group.

Whenever I walk into this half of the Sidebar, I feel like I’m arriving at a party that’s been going on for about 9 hours. There are tables with empty or half-filled beer pitchers, a few guys taking down some wild game on Big Buck Safari, sports on all six of the TVs, and something always blaring out of the jukebox. When I was there last, there was music coming from the jukebox and the bar at the same time. Nobody seemed to notice.

This side of Sidebar might be louder and have more of a late-night party feel, but it has the same casual, come-as-you-are atmosphere as the quieter side. It recalls visions of crowding around a table with good friends and bad beer, laughing the night away. Maybe that’s a chapter of your life that closed long ago. But I think it’s the kind of thing you never get too old for.

Last Call

It might be as laid-back a bar as there is in Boston, and that’s a good thing. Sidebar is right smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest sections of the city – exactly the kind of area that needs a cozy, comfortable dive bar.

And I do this place a disservice if I characterize it solely as a hangout for people in their 20s who haven’t outgrown their college days. Sidebar draws a diverse clientele, from professionals to Suffolk Law students to anyone who enjoys the merits of affordable food and drink. One gets the sense that all are welcome here.

The $7 Bud Light pitchers are the best value, but not the only good deal. If you don’t need a pitcher, a Bud Light draft will run you $2. My Narragansett was $3.

Prices for other beers and drinks are fairly standard. Our pitcher of Sam Adams “winter is coming” Alpine Spring was $18, and my Jameson was $6. Other draft beers are about $5, which is pretty good.

The food is reasonably priced, though it’s higher than what is currently displayed on Sidebar’s website. John’s panini and my burger were each just under $10. Not exactly a steal, but since sandwiches and burgers in the area are starting to average around $12 (which blows), it’s still one of the better deals around.

If you’re looking for eclectic beer selections and craft cocktails, there is no shortage of bars serving them downtown and near the Financial District. The area is home to some of Boston’s most popular bars, like Stoddard’sand JM Curley. Sidebar, meanwhile, is comparatively modest; it almost blends into the other storefronts along Bromfield Street. It’s a low-cost alternative that isn’t as shiny and trendy as some of its neighbors, but there’s much to be said for pitchers of beer and a good jukebox. Because while the popularity of microbrews and artisanal drinks will ebb and flow, the simplicity of a comfortable bar with cheap beer will never go out of fashion.

Address: 14 Bromfield Street, Boston

Website:http://www.sidebarboston.com/

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February 8, 2013

Matthew Maslin

All Posts, Bars and Restaurants, BOSTON

Sullivan's Tap

February 8, 2013

Matthew Maslin

All Posts, Bars and Restaurants, BOSTON

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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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November 11, 2012

Matthew Maslin

All Posts, Bars and Restaurants, BOSTON

Beacon Hill Pub

November 11, 2012

Matthew Maslin

All Posts, Bars and Restaurants, BOSTON

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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.

May 17, 2012

Boston BarHopper

All Posts, Bars and Restaurants, BOSTON

Whitney's

May 17, 2012

Boston BarHopper

All Posts, Bars and Restaurants, BOSTON

There are three things I can comfortably rely on when I go to Whitney’s in Harvard Square. First, some staple of classic rock will be booming from the jukebox as soon as I walk in. Second, I’ll encounter at least one person who looks like they’ve been sitting at the bar since noon. Third, I will end up having a conversation that runs the gamut from interesting to bizarre with a complete stranger – usually the guy who’s been there since noon.

And it’s easy to see why someone would set up shop here for the day. Whitney’s is a classic, cozy dive with a blue-collar feel to it. Its clientele varies widely, from an older, grittier sect that seems to prefer this low-key atmosphere over some of Harvard Square’s trendier options, to local students taking advantage of cheap(er) beer.

And me, of course.

Aside from a dartboard, a fancy digital jukebox, and Big Buck Hunter, this is a decidedly “no frills” bar. It’s a small place, but with dozen chairs at the marble-tiled bar and maybe 10 stools on the opposite wall, finding a seat is rarely a problem.

My friend Brian once said that Whitney’s reminds him of “a cross between my uncle’s house and a really nice place.” I can’t think of a more fitting tribute to this bar. There’s something honest about it. I get the sense that blood, sweat, and tears went into building this establishment. If you converted part of your basement into a bar, you probably wouldn’t be designing some lavish showpiece – it would be more like a man-cave. A comfortable room where you could drink a few beers with your friends and watch the game, the walls adorned with quintessential bar décor – neon Bud signs, framed Guinness posters, and a dartboard.

That’s Whitney’s. Simple, unpretentious. What you see is what you get.

Brian and I stopped in about a month or so ago at about 7 p.m., following dinner and drinks at nearby Russell House Tavern. There were maybe 10 or 12 people there, which seems pretty typical for a weeknight.

“Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin was playing when we arrived, satisfying the classic rock component of the evening. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time in places like TRADE and Marliave, but it’s been so long since I walked into a bar and was greeted by the iconic guitar riffs of Jimmy Page and the banshee-like vocals of Robert Plant. It was refreshing. When the song was over, it was followed by…”Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. Again. Not as refreshing the second time around.

Maybe it’s “when in Rome” syndrome, maybe it’s the $3.25 price tag, but Brian and I always get the same thing when we’re here – Pabst Blue Ribbon on draft.

If you’re not a PBR fan, Guinness, Bass, Bud, Stella, Sam Adams, and Magner’s cider round out the draft options. If you’re looking for a designer cocktail list or an array of microbrews, you’re in the wrong bar.

I find that a night at Whitney’s truly relies on conversation. They don’t serve food here, so unless you’re a connoisseur of potato chips, there will be no conversations about the cuisine. No menu to look over, no discussion about whether you want to split nachos. Maybe that’s why the patrons here, whether they know each other or not, tend to be so gregarious. And that can be a mixed blessing, as Brian and I were about to discover.

As we sipped our PBRs, a couple of Queen songs came on the jukebox – “We Will Rock You” and “Another One Bites the Dust.” I would have paid them no notice, except the guy who played them, an older gent who reminded me in voice and demeanor, if not appearance, of Barry Weiss, “The Collector,” from the show Storage Wars, apologized to Brian and me for choosing old tunes that might not appeal to us whippersnappers.

Maybe I just needed the unique ego boost that you get when you’re in your 30s and someone calls you a whippersnapper, but I found it absurdly flattering that someone would think those particular songs would be too far before our time for us to recognize. And pretty amusing, too – as Queen songs go, they aren’t exactly lost tracks.

I sensed the “interesting conversation” quotient of the night shaping up when Barry (I’m just going to call him Barry) explained to us that, earlier in the day, he’d been playing some Frank Sinatra songs on said jukebox, and “the ladies loved it.” I took that at face value. Only later did I begin to wonder what “ladies” were hanging out at Whitney’s in the middle of the day. And how long he’d been there.

In hindsight, that might have been the first red flag; but Brian and I love Ol’ Blue Eyes, so we applauded Barry’s good taste and talked Sinatra for a bit.

His next selections were “Rhiannon” and “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

OK. Not the songs I would have chosen, but hey…I have no beef with Fleetwood Mac, and I’ve heard much worse in bars before. Like, for instance, a song from the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack.

Which is what followed.

By that time, our missteps were all too apparent. We had accepted an invitation to dinner at the home of a madman, and by the time we realized the food was poisoned, the doors were locked and the windows barred.

Our polite conversation about music gave way to an animated lecture on Franklin D. Roosevelt, about whom Barry had been reading while sitting at the bar. Brian got the worst of it, since he was next to the guy (and it suddenly became very important for me to start taking some pictures of Whitney’s for the blog). Facts, rumors, anecdotes, quotes, statistics, you name it. The alleged conspiracy surrounding Pearl Harbor. Hiding a crippling disability while in the public eye. The unprecedented third and fourth terms. It was a verbal celebration of all things FDR. On the plus side, Brian will never have to buy the book.

Having had his fill of presidential history for one evening, Brian headed out. I discreetly slid down a few seats and found myself next to a guy who was there with his wife; I’d put them in their mid-40s. In between smoking breaks, they’d stop into the bar, have a few drinks, talk to me, and buy lottery tickets. Apparently, the guy was something of an amateur lottery historian. Whitney’s sells old-fashioned lottery tickets with a pull-tab you peel back to reveal a window that shows you what, if anything, you won.

As he explained to me, in a very thick Boston accent, this was the type of lottery ticket that used to be played in gentlemen’s clubs in the late 19th century. I have no way to confirm this, but he seemed like the sort of guy who’d know that sort of thing. He also claimed to have won the lottery multiple times. Despite the lack of any discernible evidence, it seemed oddly plausible.

It was then that I realized that while Whitney’s is a great place to hang out with a friend and spend the night chewing the fat, it’s also not a bad bar if you happen to be on your own. Even if you don’t strike up a random conversation, you can’t help but soak up the atmosphere.

I was in the neighborhood with an hour to kill by myself on a Friday after work, and it gave me a chance to do just that. I found the usual mishmash of patrons – some much older guys hanging around, a couple of biker-looking dudes, plus an incongruously well-dressed guy who, I later learned, runs another very popular bar in Harvard Square.

Behind me, there was a serious game of darts going on. This marks the first time I’ve witnessed a serious game of darts (maybe because my own attempts to play are just so comical), and it was made all the more intense by virtue of the player who brought his own darts! I’ve seen people bring their own pool cues to play billiards, but your own darts? That’s a first for me.

Next to me was a guy sipping Jagermeister like it was single malt scotch. Hey, to each his own, but…ewwwww. Maybe I’m the weird one, but I’ve always thought of Jager as something you do shots of at a party (a college party), trying to keep a straight face while your buds cheer you on. It never occurred to me that someone would, you know…just drink it.

I also had a chance to talk with Scott, one of the bartenders, who’s a really nice guy and clearly enjoys his job. Among the more interesting things I learned is that Whitney’s entered a contest not long ago sponsored by Maker’s Mark in which it competed with four other Harvard Square bars to devise an original cocktail. The winner? Whitney’s! Scott’s own “Maker’s Mocha,” a combination of Maker’s Mark, Kahlua, and cream, scored the bar some major local bragging rights.

I admit – I wouldn’t have expected this. But just because Whitney’s doesn’t have a fancy cocktail list doesn’t mean their bartenders can’t whip you up something special – something award-winning, even! (I ordered the prize-winner, but they were out of cream, and Scott acknowledged it was more of a holiday drink anyway.)

As usual, the jukebox was the life of the party. Incredibly, someone made me rethink the Jesus Christ Superstar song as the oddest jukebox selection I’d ever heard when they chose “The End” by the Doors. Talk about a grim, trippy 12 minutes. Thankfully, it was followed by “The Joker” by Steve Miller, which had most of the bar – biker dudes, dart players, bar owners, and me – all singing along.

Last Call

Given the diversity of bars in Harvard Square, I think it’s really important to have a place like Whitney’s. There are bars in the area that brew their own beer, make specialty cocktails, and offer upscale food menus, but they aren’t for everyone. Some people want nothing more than what Whitney’s offers, and make no mistake – it offers something unique.

Some bars manufacture an atmosphere via their design and décor. In others, like Whitney’s, the personality of the patrons contributes to a unique vibe. No doubt, this is a bar with character – and a few characters.

When you venture into a typical dive bar, you often get the feeling that you’re invading someone’s space. Like there’s a bunch of regulars who take up residence in a tucked-away, hole-in-the-wall bar, and they all know the bartender, and they don’t know you. Whitney’s, by contrast, is warm and approachable.

What’s more, it’s refreshingly straightforward. I’ve spent a lot of time so far talking about bars like Scholars that serve craft cocktails with exotic ingredients. I love those places, but I also like asking for a gin and tonic and getting a plain ol’ gin and tonic. Paying $5.50 for it (instead of $10 or $11) isn’t bad, either. And while I get excited about having 150 beers to choose from at a bar like Five Horses, there are times when deciding between Sam Adams and PBR is all the energy I want to expend.

I’m not a regular at Whitney’s. For me, it’s a place I swing by when I’m already in Harvard, and maybe looking for a change of scenery or just to close out the night. But whenever I go, and regardless of how long it’s been, I usually know what to expect from Whitney’s.

And that’s pretty good.

Address: 37 John F. Kennedy Street, Cambridge

Website: None. What did you expect?