A NIGHT out on the town should be an adventure. Though it's easy to get stuck in a rut bouncing between your old-standby bars and clubs, hitting your go-to bar again and again and again must be boring by now. And if you think you're boring, imagine how your friends feel?
Even I tremble, occasionally, at the thought of becoming a snoozefest. I know, I know: how can a Stuff@night writer possibly have a lifestyle that is anything less than perpetual glamour? Laziness, my friends. Despite the fact that it's our job to tell you about the hottest of the hot, the coolest of the cool, the funnest of the fun (all while ignoring grammatical precision in favor of words like "funnest"), when we're off the clock, sometimes we just want a stiff drink, without having to, well, think.
Thanks to some savvy bartenders and a half-dozen friends who boast endless energy and an insatiable desire for good times, I spend a recent Saturday night on a bar crawl dictated by the good people who serve me my drinks. No pre-planned route for me. No idea where I'm going next or how I'm going to get there. I decide to place my fate in the hands of the bar staff, choosing my next destination based on their recommendations. A truly spontaneous adventure, no thinking required. After all, who better to advise people on where to drink than Boston's booze professionals?
Even the first stop of the night is a recommendation: my boyfriend, Sam, insists that we begin at the Sail Loft (80 Atlantic Avenue, Boston, 617.227.7280), one of his favorite bars. "It's in my top five, babe," he tells me. I've only been once before, but I was charmed by the harborfront hole-in-the-wall, especially the tiny standing-room-only deck that peers out over the water. When we arrive at around 7:30, the bar hosts only a smattering of patrons, which is excellent news for us. We immediately storm the deck, pausing only to order beers, and stake our claim along the coveted railing that overlooks the harbor. The bartender, Greg, passes us drinks through a window, and we watch as boats sway in the breeze, lights twinkling on the surface of the water. Not much time to enjoy the scenery, though; we have places to go! We just don't know where. I make my friends down their beers and hound Greg to point us in the next direction.
On his suggestion, we abandon the peaceful refuge of the early-evening waterfront and venture toward the chaos that is Saturday night in Faneuil Hall. People mill about everywhere, spilling out of the marketplace onto the cobblestone streets. By now it's 8:30, still a bit early for bars to be too crazy, and we're happy to discover that Union Bar at the Union Oyster House (41 Union Street, Boston, 617.227.2750) is somewhat empty. Joined by a few more friends who've been on a bar crawl of their own, we grab some more beers while I try to grab the bartender's attention for a quick chat. When I finally tear him away from a group of scantily-clad barflies, he suggests we hit up his 'hood for our next drink.
We oblige and head to Southie, where we fight our way through the crowd gathered inside the Boston Beer Garden (734 East Broadway, South Boston, 617.269.0990). It's prime boozing time for both rowdy Irishmen and 20-something young professionals, so the bar is packed wall-to-wall. Same routine: we grab beers, throw them back, and make buzzed conversation. Sam tells me that he always thinks every girl at this bar is really, really attractive. I sink my talons into his arm and clutch him like an overpriced handbag. Back off, bitches, I think drunkenly. Make a move on my man and I will cut you. How's that for adventure?
Not surprisingly, I'm ready for the next bar pretty quickly. Heather, the Beer Garden bartender, laughs warmly when I tell her what I'm up to for the evening and immediately recommends Lucky's Lounge (355 Congress Street, Boston, 617.357.5825). She even gives me the names of a few bartenders I should be sure to chat with when I get there.
Lucky's is known for its cocktails, so I stray from my pattern of cheap beer and order up a Lady Luck ($9.50), a sweet treat of raspberry vodka and liqueur with fresh lime and a splash of Sprite. I'm bobbing my head to the thumping bass when suddenly: total darkness. Shit. Ican't possibly be blacked out after three beers and two sips of a candy-flavored martini. Before I begin to panic, soft spotlights illuminate the room in patches. Turns out the electricity has blown on the entire block. We're having too much fun to care, and the dim emergency lighting makes the ambiance kind of sexy. Our sweet-tempered waitress, Marcie, keeps her cool, even though she can't print out checks, run credit cards, or open the registers to make change. Instead, she sends us to City Bar (Lenox Hotel, 710 Boylston Street, Boston, 617.933.4801).
By the time we make it to Back Bay, find parking, dodge the gauntlet of vagabonds gathered around the entrance to the Boston Public Library, and stumble into the Lenox, it's late. (Really late. Jesus, how did it get so late?) The crowd outside City Bar extends beyond the velvet rope and all the way across the lobby of the hotel. No matter: alcohol gives you confidence! I put on my best "I belong here so get the hell out my way!" face and march toward the door. The burly yet impeccably dressed bouncer opens the door for me and waves me through. Ha! Confidence comes in a bottle, I tell you.
Inside, the bartender, Brian, mixes me a ginger-peach martini ($11) and I sink blissfully into a booth, sipping my cocktail and - oops. My confidence has eclipsed my memory. All of my friends are still outside. I rush to the door. Then back inside we all go, where Sam's roommate attempts to hit on a girl by making smooth, sexy exclamations such as "You're wearing a blazer!"
Eventually I remember that I'm working, not playing, so I head straight to the bar, where Brian emphatically tells me that I absolutely must go to the Beehive (541 Tremont Street, Boston, 617.423.0069). I agree! The only problem is that he's also just announced last call, my designated driver has already headed home, and I keep saying things like, "I luuuurve thith drink. I mean, I, like, luuurve it. Omigod, can I tell you howmushiluuuurve you? I'm scho glad we'rrre friendszz."
And so, my travel capability, legal drinking time, and dignity thwarted, Sam and I say our goodbyes and go outside to hail a cab home - which is, of course, an adventure in itself. @
