Wharf Tavern

Herman Melville Boulevard runs parallel to Route 18, and just south of the old Wamsutta Mill (presently being converted into upscale condominiums), sits the Wharf Tavern. It is the only sign of night life in a industrial sector of town that is wed to the fishing community and related businesses. But on the evening of the Barflies' visit, it was quiet. Except for Tammy. Tammy is a high-spirited and sassy barmaid with a good, bawdy sense of humor, who seemed surprised to see a few strangers walk in. Tammy mentioned that it was slow, not only because it was a Wednesday, but because much of the fleet was out, and the most regular of the regulars are fisherman. And long-haul truckers... one of who finished up his beer and went to the sleeper berth in his semi, which was parked out behind the tavern. When Tammy stepped out from behind the bar and stepped outside to smoke a cigarette (after ensuring everyone was set with drinks), another patron mentioned, in short order, that, A.) the Wharf Tavern had been around for thirty years; B.) that it served the "best breakfast in town"; and that, C.) Tammy was a "hot shit." While those were not the words Mr. Draft would have chosen, he understood- and appreciated- the other customer's observation. The Wharf has a good reputation for fresh seafood, but the restaurant section was already closed when Mr. Draft and his colleagues were there. The draft selection was limited but Tammy was more than up to the challenge of any sissy drink that Mr. Mix could throw at her. One suspects that if the "fleet were in" and it was a Friday or Saturday night, it might've been hopping...but on that cold, fleetless, mid-week night- it gets a 5...despite Tammy's best efforts. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr, Mix, Mr.3BOES)

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