Marshall's Pub

Over twenty-five years ago, Mr. Draft spent a summer working with Mr. Cork, doing some construction and renovation work. One hot Friday afternoon, a coworker and colleague (who shall be referred to as Mr. Nose Candy) who lived in South Dartmouth, invited the two future Barflies to join him for lunch at Marshall's Pub, on Rockadale Avenue, near the corner of Dartmouth Street. Mr. Draft, Mr. Cork and Mr. Nose Candy enjoyed a couple of cheap cold Buds (yes...Mr. Draft used to drink Bud before he became a beer snob) and ate the great lunch that the place was known for- a traditional New England clam boil. It was inexpensive and perfect...a cup full of hot steamers in a salty broth, accompanied by drawn butter, and served with a piece of linguica, a hotdog, a few white potato halves, and a cob of corn. On the occasion of the Barflies' more recent visit to Marshall's Pub (it has a sign depicting a cowboy-town marshall's star badge), it was not a hot summer afternoon. It was a cold and rainy February night. A clam boil was not on anyone's mind. The draft selection was the usual dismal array of macro-brewed swill (yes...Bud was still on tap) and even that selection was winnowed down by tap lines gone dry, upside-down plastic beer cups over the tap handles indicating empty kegs. Mr. Greyhound once again was disappointed by the absence of grapefruit juice, and once again, he had cranberry juice splashed in with his vodka. His moniker made need to be changed to Mr. Cape Codder. When Mr. Mix asked the curmudgeonly woman behind the bar to recommend a mixed drink, she snarled that she didn't drink and she wouldn't make a recommendation. Her attitude was less than inviting. Marshall's interior is as equally drab and forgettable as its' exterior. There is little reason to return...unless that clam boil is still available...and it's August.
The Barflies were underwhelmed and give Marshall's a 4. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Greyhound, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Mix, Mr. Cork)