By devhahn, on July 18th, 2010%
I was sitting at Highland Kitchen in Somerville drinking my third glass of water. I’d sweat my weight biking up Central Street to get there. On my right, an old man with a handlebar mustache was chasing a cucumber slice around his glass with a straw. On my left, three women were talking loudly with Boston accents. ighland Kitchen is your best bet on finding a good Boston accent and a good Aviation in the same room.
Joe McGuirk was behind the bar. I’d been watching him for an hour. The man’s a maestro. He pours spirits with . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Highland Kitchen—McGuirk’s Vindication
By devhahn, on July 11th, 2010%
It was 3:25 in the afternoon and hot as hell. I should have been at work. Instead, I was racing down Commonwealth Avenue and breathing exhaust. I had an appointment to make. Jackson Cannon, the bar manager at Eastern Standard, had agreed to an interview. If I could do it that day.
I crossed into Kenmore Square sweating bullets and pulled my bike up in front of Eastern Standard. Beneath the red overhang, people in polos and shades were dining al fresco. I felt like a barnyard animal. I wiped my dripping forehead with my shirttail and went . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Eastern Standard—Lifting Hemingway’s Prints
By devhahn, on July 6th, 2010%
In a Harvard Square basement, exposed-filament bulbs burned golden beneath steel housings, Arcade Fire rumbled in the eaves, and a man in a straw porkpie hat and a beard sat alone at the bar. Outside, it was ninety-five degrees and the 4th of July. Down there, the AC had already started to dry my throat. I was at one of the newest fixtures of the Boston cocktail scene, Russell House Tavern, to meet with one of the oldest: Brother Cleve.
I’d heard whispers about Cleve since I started drinking cocktails in Boston. Some call him the Godfather of . . . → Read More: Periodista Tales: Brother Cleve—The Godfather
