Normally Boston is a a great place to go out, but yesterday was somewhat exceptional.
The day itself was incredibly busy. We went to both the Marche de Noel and the Kristkindelmarkt, French and German Christmas markets respectively. Think yummy, warm mulled wine (or Gluwein, as it's called at the German markets). A couple of glasses of gluwein and I was already a bit sleepy and, unfortunately, not in the mood for a night of Irish rebel songs.
Gerd had heard that Gary Og was going to be playing at The Times in the financial district. I sent him on alone while my nerves recovered from about 200 people speaking German at the same time. I took a nap, he discovered he had the wrong bar.
Not only was Gary Og not playing, he had 15 minutes to leave before they closed the place for a private party. Now, Gerd is German, and has one foot in the door of Ireland. He likes to drink, so he tried Dooleys, a typically quiet place around the corner that has an old Irish feel.
They were closed for a private party, but would open in 45 minutes.
He decided to come home in defeat. And, when he came home, we figured out Gary Og was supposed to be playing at a sister bar of The Times, The Blackthorn. This one was located in Southie, which makes a bit more sense. Southie is, afterall, the place where Boondock Saints and The Departed were filmed. it's an area richly steeped in all things Irish and all things rebel.
So, I went with him this time. We walked in, no Gary Og, and then, after ordering drinks, we discovered someone should have stopped us at the door.
It was a private party.
Now Southie isn't really as a bad as it's made out to be. Sure it's a little rough around the edges, but for the most part its become kind of a middle class neighborhood. Middle class with most an average house price of $500,000. The pub, reviewed by irishemigrant.com, said that it was a close to an Irish pub as Boston can get. Gerd agreed, with an important caveat. Sure, he said, it's JUST like a North Dublin bar, which is something you shouldn't really brag about.
So after one of the birthday goers at this party dropped and broke his second glass of beer we decided to take a cab to the Squealing Pig in Mission Hill.
Keep in mind, we weren't exactly sure where Mission Hill was, or the address of the pub for that matter, so we're frantically tapping away at our phones while trying to direct the cab driver in the right direction. In the end, we did find it, but the cab driver still left us about 10 minutes away from the pub, after repeated statements of, Stop Here, or This is Good, and things like that.
I'd seen this place once while getting lost in Boston, but only by car, and I thought it looked good. So, while we were working out the Gary Og fiasco, I also looked up the Pig. Reviews said it was the BEST place to be on a Thursday night, but the worst place to be if you were concerned with political correctness. What I noticed, but didn't think much about, was that the first Saturday of every month had the same venue. Turns out yesterday was the first Saturday of the month.
The owner, who's probably around 50 or so, plays saucy Irish songs, or other rowdy songs, and everyone sings along. There's a huge local following. Anyway, we walked into the whole bar singing, "An Alligator, what the fuck? What's a fucking Alligator?" The song continued with many variations, including Michael Jackson, with a sung response from the owner.
Everyone pretty much knew what was going on except us, but it was definitely fun. Needless to say, Gerd, my guitar playing honey, lapped it up. We stayed until close, with one of us more sober than the other. Okay, so I kept making him finish my drinks, but he had enough on his own.
Anyway, that's life in Boston I guess.
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