Rose Alley Ale House

Although he may be loathe to admit it, it appears as though Mr. 3BOEs was somewhat ogling the barmaid at the Rose Alley Ale House on the night of the Barflies' visit. And with Mr. Mix alongside him as an impromptu wingman of happenstance, he may have even been "chatting her up," as the British say. And it is understandable, as Leeann was a very beautiful and gregarious redhead, and Mr. 3BOEs was fortified with a few in 'im already. But enough on 3B's vague flirtatiousness--- the Rose Alley Ale House is also beautiful and gregarious. Housed in a centuries old building, facing Route 18 and the State Pier, one door north of Cork, the Rose Alley is a brand new establishment, started by a trio of young entrepreneurs who have an obvious love for beer. Some time back, the building housed the infamous Cultivator Shoal, and local tales of it persist as a haven for drunkards, whores, brawlers, reprobates, smack dealers, knife wielders, thieves, con men and other riff-raff. But Mr. Draft cannot swear to the veracity of these claims...but folklore exists for a reason. (Bones found in the basement during renovations turned out to be of animal in nature.) In any case, the riff-raff are sparse in the Rose Alley...the crowd seem to be primarily collegiate or twenty-something, with a few old wankers like (some of) the Barflies thrown into the mix. The ale house is a two-story joint with an interesting quirk... light ales, IPAs, lagers, and a few other classifications served upstairs, while the downstairs bars offers "specialty beers". In truth, any beer can be ordered at the lower or the upper bar, and a member of the staff will retrieve it from either bar, but there does seem to a method to the madness. The beer selection is remarkably plentiful. Some of the downstairs offerings included Ommegang 3 Philosophers quadrupel brew, Victory Storm King (a Russian imperial stout), and Rogue Dead Guy malbock. Upstairs selections included Allagash Belgian White, Offshore IPA, Troeg's Hop Back Amber Ale, and a dozen others, as well the usual macrobrew suspects, Bud Light, Coors Light, and one inexpensive skunky favorite of Mr. Draft's- Moosehead, a steal for $2. Beyond the brews, the Rose Alley offers a concise menu of bar munchies, including about a dozen kinds of wings, served wet or dry--- that is, with sauce or a dry rub, including teriyaki and barbecue style, as well as the predictable- but excellently fiery buffalo version. There is a handsome sign above the door outside (and Mr. Draft knows a wee bit about signs), but the interior is a bit lacking in decor...and the right visual kick could add a sense of style, character and history. All in all, the Rose Alley Ale House is a welcome addition to New Bedford's ever evolving bar scene and it rates a well-deserved 9. Put some art on the walls...get a 10. And LeeAnn...Mr. 3BOEs lives just a few blocks up the hill...if you're interested. Pretty sure he is... Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. 3BOEs, Mr. Elixir, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Merlot

Waterfront Grille

Located on Homer's Wharf, just south of the Bourne Counting House, sits the Waterfront Grille, an elegant and upscale addition to city's thriving bar-and-restaurant scene. That space, in a previous incarnation, had been the home of Louie's on the Wharf, a legendary New Bedford restaurant, that raised the bar for the local culinary community. Let it be said that the Waterfront Grille is a worthy successor. Overlooking the harbor and the docked fishing fleet, there is a lovely view that rises above the cliched and schmaltzy sentiment that a cynic like Mr. Draft might ordinarily assign to such a visage. It is beautiful and does, no doubt, attract visitors of the city, but the Waterfront Grille is no kitschy tourist trap. Small, white tubular lights hover over the bar, creating a tasteful atmosphere that is neither too cloyingly romantic nor unnaturally bright. On the night of the Barflies' visit on-tap brews were nothing spectacular or out of the mainstream- Miller Lite, a Sam Adams Seasonal offering, Blue Moon and Long Trail, and Mr. Draft opted for the lunatic choice. The pretty barmaid, Jennifer, proved to be an excellent barkeep. Several of Mr Draft's hungrier companions ordered food at the bar and greatly enjoyed their meals. And while Mr. Draft greatly enjoys the company of his compatriots in the Barflies-- for example, Messrs. Elixir, 3BOEs and Mix are somewhat of a Holy Trinity of entertaining geek conversation, Mr. Merlot and Mr. Sazurac are formidable thinkers as to local politics and art, and keen observers of cleavage; and one could get lost in Mr. Brew-haha's dreamy eyes--- Mr. Draft thinks he would most enjoy the Waterfront when he is out "on a date" with the beautiful Mrs. Draft. It bests functions--at least in the evening-- as a romantic spot. And it rates a 9...and if the draft selections improved ever so slightly, it might enter the exalted realm of the Tens. Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Elixir, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Brew-haha, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Lupilin

Royal II Restaurant

Just to the east side of Route 18, in a maritime industrial zone, about midway between Union Street and Cove Street, on a triangular wedge of asphalt sits the Royal Restaurant II. There is a Royal Restaurant I (sans the numeral) on North Front Street, just north of Sawyer Street which the Barflies have yet to visit. In the name of full disclosure, Mr. Draft will be the first to admit that he has dragged his children, hence known as Baby Girl Draft and Draft Junior, to pubs and taverns (that served good food) since they were infants-- hell, since they were in utero-- but still Mr. Draft didn't expect to see a couple or three kids sitting at the bar drinking Yoo-Hoo when the Barflies dropped into the Royal II. Mr. Draft quickly came to the perhaps erroneous, but likely conclusion that they were the children of the barmaid, Carla, and only in for a quick visit with Dad. Mr. Draft drank the least disagreeable draft choice- Narragansett (which has actually vastly improved since its' unexpected return) over the macrobrew regulars- Bud and Coors Light. Mr. Mix drank Carla's suggestion--- a Sex on the Beach variant called Sex in Florida. Carla seemed to be somewhat of an absentee barmaid, as she was often away from her post, but Mr. Draft believes she was working as hostess, and occasionally vanishing through a door behind the bar to seat patrons in the adjoining restaurant. The Royal II is frankly, nothing special--- again , with notice that the 'Flies did not eat there- it is too bright and too bland in environment to be particularly engaging. The menu was bilingual, and there was a spinner rack, displaying compact discs of fado and other Portuguese music, so one can credit the Royal II with playing to its' strength and embracing the customer base. Not a bad place, but nothing that makes the Barflies anxious for another visit. The Royal II gets a 5. Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Elixir, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Lupilin, Mr. Brew-haha

Hibernia

Whenever Mr. Draft hears the term "Irish Bar", he is reminded of McSorley's Ale House on Manhattan's Lower East Side, staffed by first generation Irish immigrants, serving only two kinds of beer (no liquor or wine), and only opening its' aged doors to women in the early 1970's when required to do so by statute. It is quite possibly the oldest bar In New York City- though some at Pete's Tavern on Fifth Avenue may dispute that claim- and it may be Mr. Draft's favorite bar in the world...although Gritty McDuff's in Portland, Maine, and the Starry Plough in Berkeley, California are right up there. (The Plough, by the way, was rumored to be running guns for the IRA, a legend Mr. Draft chose to embrace in his younger days. And they served great fish and chips.)
However, most newer Irish bars seem to identify themselves Irish as a genre rather than as an ethnic by-product, looking forward to the money deluge of St. Patrick's Day, with the requisite green beer, corned beef and cardboard shamrocks.
Hibernia, in the space formerly occupied by Merlot (reviewed at any earlier date), may have a slightly higher pedigree. While there is nothing explicitly "Irish" about Hibernia- the name is the Latin term for Ireland- it is light years beyond its' predecessor as an inviting watering hole. The tap selection is broad and satisfying, and the decor is inviting- unlike the prior tenants. Hibernia offers good, simple pub food and the staff - including a quite capable and perky barmaid named Lindsay- are gregarious and proficient.
"Irish" bars tend to attract a high proportion of professionals from the worlds of law enforcement and fire fighting, and Hibernia is no exception. Unfortunately, Irish bars also attract large gaggles of politicians, as on the night of the Barflies' visit, when it seemed that most of the City Council was there. Now, that's a scary crowd. Hibernia rates a 7.5.
Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Moonshine, Mr. Mix, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Sazurac

Union City Bar and Grill

New to the city bar scene (having been around for about nine weeks as of this writing), the Union City Bar and Grill, located in what-used-to-be the Main Event, on Union Street. The Union City Bar and Grill is ripe with potential...for good or evil. Let's start with the good: it is freshly redecorated, it has a spacious dance floor, a potentially romantic dining room, and some kick-ass deep-fried mozzarella. But there was no one to enjoy the new decor, no romancin' and no one dancin'. And only a couple of Barflies were scoffing the cheese. Mr. Draft engaged in a conversation with the cook, who assured him that reggae nights and other musical diversions would be soon coming.
Now for the evil...well, maybe, not really evil, but certainly misguided: other than the aforementioned personable kitchen personnel and five Barflies, the only other people in Union City were a sweet, 21-year old, mind-numbingly buxom barmaid (Sarah) and a chatty, lecherous old goofball customer (Kevin).
Now, if Union City were a sitcom, Sarah would be Suzanne Somers' Three's Company character, but with shorter hair and a fuller blouse. Kevin would be played by the bastard child of Cliff Claven and Barney Fife, with a little bit of Rush Limbaugh thrown in. As might be surmised, presidential politics was the conversational topic, and Sarah's naivety (she had concerns about Reverend Wright!) and Kevin's low key viciousness (complaining about New Bedford welfare "dregs") led to a heated debate, with Mr. Moonshine coming to the forefront as left wing spokesman for the left-leaning, Obama-supporting Barflies. In actuality, the spur-of-the-moment political banter made for an interesting time.
But, with a little planning and a lot of luck- especially in these dire economic times- the Union City will catch on...music, dance, a bit of a crowd....and the entertainment won't have to fall to Sarah and Kevin.
With due respect for the "newness" of the place and the audacity of hope for the Union City Bar and Grill's success, it gets a 5...with fingers-crossed.
Roll Call: Mr, Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr, 3BOES. Mr. Elixir, Mr. Moonshine

Dipper Cafe

Although the Barflies have a hardcore core charter membership and a morphing collection of characters who come into the group, this collection of imbibers cannot be considered a motley crew, or degenerate reprobates, in any way, as Felix the bartender choice to serve us, despite the sign warning, "We reserve the right not to serve undesirable persons." Yes, the New Bedford Barflies have achieved "desirability". Of course, this was not at the Ritz-Carlton or the Russian Tearoom...but at the Dipper Cafe, a venerable, old and comfortable tavern on Purchase Street, somewhere between Glaser Glass and the Lebanese Kitchen. The Dipper is a laid back and friendly joint, with a talkative and curious group of regulars and a laid back bartender- Felix- who did his unflustered best to make Mr. Mix a girly-drink. Buttershots poured into a Pepsi created a "caramel cola" and Mix drunk it like a man. A girly man.
There were no draft beers to be had, so Mr. Draft opted for his usual fallback cocktail- a cc-and-ginger- while Mr. Moonshine, Mr. 3BOES and Mr. Elixir drank, respectfully, a Sam Adams, a Corona, and a Heineken.
The Dipper has all the usual tavernly accoutrements: a pool table, a couple of booths, the prerequisite dim lighting, dark wood, and an old-school menu board (but, sadly, food is only served between 11:45 a.m. and 2:30 p.m.) It has its' charms, not the least of which is the affable and conversational nature of the regulars. It gets better than middle-of-the-road 6.
Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Elixir, Mr. Moonshine.

Sapatinha's Cafe

On the evening of the Barflies' sojourn into Sapatinha's, located in downtown New Bedford at the corner of Acushnet Avenue and School Street, there were only three or four patrons at the bar...and no bartender on duty, seemingly, as we sat on the stools. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Maria appeared. She was a friendly, middle-aged, self-depreciating woman with a plastic bag on her head. Really. She explained that she'd taken advantage of a quiet moment to dye her hair in the ladies' room, and she proceeded to serve the Barflies, with a Rite-Aid bag over her hair.
The draft selection was limited to Bud and more Bud, so Mr. Draft shifted to his fall-back choice, a can of Guinness. Mr. Merlot sipped a heavily fortified Portuguese wine, strong enough to strip paint off a hardwood floor. When asked by Mr. Mix for a "mixed drink, something creamy, sweet, no fruit juice," Maria suggested a Tequila Rose, which Mr. Mix ordered. It turned out to be a premixed cocktail, the color of Pepto-Bismol and the flavor of Frankenberry cereal, a strong artificial strawberry kick. Mr. Mix described it as "being offensive to the palate."

Sapatinha's is a rather nice place, dark and quietly elegant, with plush seats and the illusion that it is twice as large as it actually is, due to the placement of a large mirror on the back wall, an illusion only broken by the realization that the exit sign is in reverse and there is a guy at the other end of the bar who looks just like you. Two televisions played, one broadcasting Jeopardy! and the other airing American Gladiator, appealing to both the Apollonian and the Dionysian sides of the cafe's patrons. A hand drawn portrait of Mother Theresa hung behind the bar, as did a Red Sox banner, touching on all things holy.

A sign hung over the bar that read: "Credit is for banks not bars. If you ask me, I will throw you out." Sapatinha's will likely not be a beneficiary of any $700 billion dollar bailout.

The cafe was quiet that evening, but Mr. Draft suspects that Friday and Saturday nights are more vibrant. Sapatinha's gets a straightforward 6.

Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr, Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Moonshine

Pour Farm Tavern

Located midway between Union Street and William Street, on Purchase, sits one of the city's newest drinking establishments. And it's a very welcome addition. Mr. Draft and the rest of the Barfly crew comfortably ensconced themselves at the staid bar, tended to by a competent young man by the name of Jesse. The Pour Farm is warm and inviting and Mr. Draft was impressed with the draft selection. Many bars in New Bedford serve beer on tap...the Pour Farm does it with a zymurgist's zeal. The on-tap selection includes Guinness, Harpoon UFO Raspberry, Cisco Whale's Tale, Brooklyn Brewery Pilsner, and for the feeble beer aficionado, Coors Light. But Mr. Draft opted for the seasonal offering from Dogfish Craft Brewery, a small and adventurous brewery, based in Delaware. It was a bit pricey at $5.50, but Dogfish's Punkin' Ale was a hearty, chewy brew, with a strong pumpkin pie kick, and hints of cinnamon, nutmeg and coriander.

In the name of full disclosure, Mr. Draft must confess to a previous life as a maker of tap handles. Customers included the aforementioned Dogfish Craft Brewery, as well as Wolaver's, Magic Hat, and Otter Creek. But Mr. Draft knows no loyalty and is a bit of a beer whore...whoever is making the best brew in any given season and at any given location--- that's who gets Mr. Draft's lovin'. But that said, Dogfish is consistently good-- in the bottle and especially, on tap. And the Punkin' Ale is a beauty. And so is the Pour Farm Tavern. It is a highlight for the beer connoisseur, New Bedford's answer to Portland's Gritty McDuff's, or Burlington's Vermont Pub and Brewery.

Mr. Draft has no idea what the other Barflies drank. Or even if they were there.

The Pour Farm rates a strong 9, with a suggestion or three on how to up the score to a 10...

1.) Start offering some good, simple pub grub--- keep it simple and beer friendly- fish and chips, an Angus burger, some bangers and mash, a good Caesar salad (which means with anchovies), and the like.

2.) Hire bartenders who have extensive knowledge about beer (or the willingness to get educated on the subject) and can talk up the offered brews, asking customers what they like, making suggestions, able to explain the difference between an IPA and a pilsner. This would go along way to making the Pour Farm the '"go-to" place for smart and serious beer drinkers in NB.

3.) Stock a pile of the Ale Street News and/or the Yankee Brew News by the entrance. Leave an issue or two of Draft magazine about for visitors to peruse. Play up the commitment to GOOD beer, for all it is worth. Build it and they will come!



Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Cork, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Elixir, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Whiskey, Mr. Brew-haha, Mr. Lupilin,

Hungry Whale

At the corner of Elm Street and Pleasant Street, directly across from the New Bedford bus station, is the Hungry Whale, a bar so nondescript as to lack a sign indicating its' name. The Hungry Whale, had been, in a previous life, a bar called the Blue Moon Cafe, and it went by another name (or two) prior to that. It has a dank and seedy look to it from the outside, and passing through the door does not allay that sense. It looks- and feels- like the kind of place that a brawl could easily break out in, and that may have something to do with its' proximity to the bus station and the transient nature of the clientele. However, there did seem to be some old men, sipping their Buds and watching the Red Sox, and a couple of younger guys playing pool, who were probably "regulars". The Barflies, if nothing else, can be described, collectively as "irregulars."

The barkeep, a jovial young guy named Rick, with the mullet from hell, noted that it was karaoke night but the Barflies didn't stay long enough to partake and/or enjoy. No drafts were available, and the bottled beer selection was merely adequate. The saving grace was some bottled Guinness Stout, which Rick apologized for--- because they weren't cold. However, Mr. Draft, Mr. Cork and Mr. Sazurac prefer Guinness at room temp, and the rest of the 'Flies drank Coors, Corona and the like at an appropriately cold degree. Except for Mr. Mix, who drank an exotic cocktail known as a"jack-and-coke."

The Hungry Whale is unremarkable in decor...bland sheetrock, macrobrew neon, a pool table, and a lottery ticket vending machine. The service is okay, the selection minimal, and the female customers non-existent (on the night of the visit, in any case.)

It rates a four...it just ain't trying. But maybe, it doesn't want to...

Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Cork, Mr. Elixir, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Brew-haha, Mr. Whiskey, Mr. Lupulin.

addendum from Mr. Mix
The captain's chairs that were thoroughly broken in at one end of the bar were extraordinarily comfortable. Also they are raised up so when you sit it is perfectly level for the bar. A small touch that shows what the bar was many many years ago.

No Problemo

After a dry summer hiatus, the Barflies have reconvened, and the membership has grown. The usuals suspects have returned, for the most part...Mr. Cork, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Mix, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Elixer , and Mr. Draft, the primary contributor to this blog. Mr. Greyhound is MIA, perhaps in a blue funk about the closing of his beloved Merlot (on William St.) or frustrated that most bars don't keep grapefruit juice in stock. Mr. Martini is unavailable as he is presently teaching a class on usual gathering night (that guy's priorities are seriously fucked up!) However, two new recruits have entered the fray...Mr. Brew-haha and Mr. Whiskey.

This expanded group made it's first stop No Problemo, at the corner of William and Purchase Streets in downtown New Bedford. No Probelmo has been a fixture on that corner for a number of years serving some damn good burritos, enchiladas and other Mexican foods. Recently, the small establishment doubled it's size, got a liquor license, and put in a pretty good bar. And that bar is an very good addition to the downtown drinkin' scene.

The bar itself is a classy brushed copper. The walls are painted in an earthy shade, something Sherwin-Williams probably calls "terra cotta" and those walls are decorated with an array of kitschy, fun and stereotypically south-of-the border icons:the ceramic head of a Mexican wrestler, a black velvet matador painting, an O'Keefian cattle skull, and the inevitable saints.

The bartender. a young and capable server, was knowledgeable about the beers and made suggestions. He served a young and hip crowd (except for the Barflies- most who aren't "young"---there are actually a couple of Barflies who are also members of another hallowed institution---AARP, and as to "hip"...remember the old, classic Tower of Power funk hit What Is Hip?...well, some Barflies remember it...and, just asking, what's a "Coldplay?" But, I digress...

Mr.Draft was disappointed that there were no drafts available, but there was an extensive bottled beer list- 41-count 'em- 41 beers were available, including the common macro brewery offerings , as well as Anchor Steam, Sierra Nevada, Smuttynose, Lienehfiugel's, Modelo Negro and a host of others. Mr. Mix, as could be expected, indulged in a bit of fruity pink liquid, that looked like a Shirley Temple, but was, in actuality, a Watermelon Sangria, and enjoyed it like any good girl-drink drinker would. Despite calling himself Mr. Whiskey, Mr. Whiskey drank bottled beer, but he has admitted to a love of Jack Daniels, so it is expected that he will earn that moniker in the upcoming weeks. Mr. Merlot enjoyed the red he was served, happy that it wasn't a tiny bottle of Sutter Home. Of course, No Probelmo serves some great bar food, and the 'Flies shared some guacomole and chips...special guest and Honorary Barfly, Mr. Lupulin (Hop Oil) - now in London- had what is likely to be the best meal of Mexican food he will have until he returns from across the Atlantic.

The younger Barflies didn't seem to be bothered by it, but there was a happily loud and steady din of conversation and subdued music, that made it difficult for the curmudgeonly, old bastard contingent of the Barflies to carry on a conversation of their own.

No Problemo is a vibrant and welcome addition to the downtown NB bar scene and it rates an 8.
Roll call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr, Merlot, Mr, 3BOES, Mr. Elixer , Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Brew-haha, Mr. Whiskey and Honorary Barfly Mr. Hop Oil.

Candleworks

With exterior walls in a shade of subdued salmon, the Candleworks sits at the bottom of Elm Street very close to Route 18, and it fills a much-needed niche in the downtown New Bedford bar-and-restaurant scene. Around for nearly thirty years, this sweet old dame of a bar has gone through several changes of ownership and a menu that has wavered in quality over that time. But, damn, it's hard not to like her. Located in a building that dates way back, the Candleworks has a deserved reputation as an elegant and quixotic spot, for dinner or to sip a drink or two. Unlike another downtown spot of similar vintage- who shall remain unnamed- this place bespeaks of timelessness without tiredness, tradition without perdition, and old-school quality without old-school sentimentality. On the evening of the visit of the Barflies, the bar was tended by a friendly and good spirited bar matron named Jenny, and another younger barmaid, name unknown...both good at their job. The draft selection was more than adequate. Mr. Draft drank a a Stella Artois from a very tall pilsner glass, while Mr. Martini had Anis Escarachado (a Portuguese anise flavored liquor) on ice. Mr. Sazurac, recently relocated from New Orleans, was very vocal about how impressed he was with the interior architecture of the place. It is beautiful, with huge crossbeams supporting the ceiling above, and the textured ancient stone walls. Connected to the main dining room is a glass-enclosed deck, festooned with tiny white lights, the perfect place for a romantic interlude. As the Barflies were about to leave, a band- Distinction- was setting up, and Jennie mentioned that there was always music on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights. That may be a reason for a return visit...as if it needed another one. Candleworks rates a 10. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Cork, Mr. Sazurac. Mr. Martini)

The Garden Sports Pub

As one travels down Union Street and passes the neon sign illuminated window of the Garden, one would not know how large the place is within. There are a number of pool tables and other barroom distractions, as well as a big horseshoe shaped bar. There, however, is no garden of either the floral or vegetable variety, so Mr. Draft, noting the sports-centric theme of the bar assumes that the name is a reference to the Boston "Gah-den." Mr. Cork was once again greeted with enthusiasm when the Barflies entered. No offense to Manny at Campino but this old acquaintance of Mr. Cork's was much cuter. As it turns out, the blond babe bartender, Ann Marie, used to babysit for Mr. Cork's sons, which quickly ended Barfly speculation on Mr. Cork's reputation as a ladies' man. Ann Marie was quite friendly and conversational as well as very pleasing to the eye. Mr. Draft took note of an odd drink being sipped by a nearby patron. It was a Windex-colored concoction in a large translucent plastic cup, with a can of Red Bull half- submerged in it. The patron told Mr. Draft that it contained gin, vodka, rum, Blue Curacao and, of course, Red Bull. It was called a Trash Can, and he said it was appropriately named, as one "will getya trashed." The draft selection was strong including the usual suspects as well as Magic Hat #9, Sierra Nevada, and Smithwick's. Like nearby competitors FINS and the Catwalk, the Garden is populated by a young, attractive crowd, looking for a good time, in every conceivable sense of the term. For its' enviable draft selection, for its spaciousness and unpretensiousness, for the somewhat hip crowd, and for Ann Marie, the Garden gets an 8. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix. Mr. Cork, Mr. Sazurac)

The Catwalk Bar and Grill

Blueberries in the beer? Sure, why not? Mr. Draft ordered a Sea Dog Blueberry Ale and was surprised to see a couple of dozen actual berries added to his mug. (On a side note: evidentially, some blueberries are sinkers, and some are floaters, much like...oh, never mind). While it added nothing to the taste, it added fiber, vitamin C and anti-oxidants making it the healthiest brew Mr. Draft has had since his college days, when inspired by a scene from one of the Rocky movies, he'd gulp down a raw egg in his Pabst. The Sea Dog was a vast improvement in taste (and texture.) The Catwalk is a vibrant, sexy, and trendy bar on lower Union Street, populated by vibrant, sexy and trendy patrons, such as the Barflies. Three lovely barmaids tended the bar, and one in particular took on the challenge of Mr. Mix' esoteric cocktail requests, including the Pink Pussy. The Pink Pussy was recommended by the barmaid across the street- at FINS- and the Catwalk's more-than-capable barmaid was able to produce it, while suggesting other concoctions. She may have been the most knowledgeable bartender as to the subject of mixology that the assembled Barflies have yet come across. However, when she found out that the Pink Pussy was recommended by her across-the street competitor, she referred to her as "the dirty girl"...which was just a little catty...and kinda hot. The Catwalk was rather busy for a midweek night and the patrons very friendly, particularly two regulars, who referred to themselves as Bert and Ernie (Mr. Draft suspects these were aliases). Bert and Ernie told jokes, made drink suggestions, and recommended a number of other drinking establishments within the greater New Bedford area. In the summer, the Catwalk opens up a rooftop bar that overlooks the harbor and the town of Fairhaven, perfect for vibrant, sexy and trendy patrons...like the Barflies. For its' plump draft selection, for its' cute and smart barmaids, for its' atmosphere of gregariousness and good humor, the Catwalk rates a vibrant, sexy and trendy 9. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Light Weight)

The National

When this bar is mentioned in polite company, the reaction is an odd mix of trepidation, fear, disdain, challenge, condescending attitude, and a dose of curiosity. Located on the foot of Union Street, by Route 18, it has long had a reputation, deserved or not, of a place where heroin and hookers were readily available, where panhandling and drunken fights were common, and the threatening flash of a knife blade was not unknown. Even other local barkeeps don't hesitate to use words like "whores", "crackheads" and "scumbags" when describing the clientèle at the National. That said, most of those barkeeps have probably never stepped into the place. But the NB Barflies have. And to be frank, Mr. Draft and the rest of the League of Extraordinary Drinking Gentlemen entered the National with a swagger of equal parts boldness and caution, expecting the worst. And, ya'know, it just wasn't that bad. It is dingy and dark, and the half-dozen or so men at the bar swung their heads to the door to see who was coming in but that was as confrontational as it got. One sees history in the National, unpolished and un-yuppiefied. The walls are dark wood, reminiscent of many old bars in Boston and Manhattan. An old hand-painted menu advertises omelets, cheeseburgers, and other items, although the kitchen has been closed for years. The menu also includes a caricature of Gilly, a long gone short-order cook. The same style full-length urinal that Mr. Merlot admired at FINS was in the restroom at the National, although this one was badly in need of one of those bagel-sized mints or a bucket of ice to dilute the overwhelming aroma. Way above the urinal, at ceiling height, was an old bumper sticker suggesting an Exxon boycott. As was to be expected, the draft selection was marginal, so Mr. Draft had a bottle of Heineken, as did Mr. Merlot. Mr. Mix drank some oddity called a J-Bomb, which included a shot of Jaegermeister surrounded by a moat of Red Bull, which he sipped like a first-year college girl instead doing it like a shot as recommended by the jovial barmaid. The barmaid, whose name escapes me, was very friendly and wondered from where we came. Mr. Draft assumes we didn't fit the usual National customer profile. At one point, Mr. Merlot (borrowing loose change from Mr. Draft) wandered over to a vending machine in search of a snack, and instead came back with white handkerchiefs, hermetically sealed in plastic packaging, having bought souvenirs for his fellow Barflies (with Mr. Draft's loose change.) As to panhandling: one must have a certain respect for an establishment that posts a sign that reads: "If you don't have 1.) money 2.) cigarettes 3.) alcoholic beverages,, get the f--k out....no bums, leeches, mooches or lowlifes allowed. Management." I guess it's okay to beg for change for handkerchiefs. (By the way, Mr. Draft doesn't use dashes as letter substitutes- those were provided by the National, with respect for the delicate sensibilities of their patrons.) Of note was a bit of graffiti in the restroom, which was basically a resume for a first mate and rigger looking for work on a boat. It said he'd do "anything for work. Almost anything." The "almost anything" being a rather important footnote considering the location of the posting. Mr. Mix said that the graffiti depressed him....if his pre-visit impression of the National was that it was a mean dog, it now was a mean dog that had been beaten. All things considered, the Barflies rather enjoyed the visit to the National, and although it is unlikely that we will return with our wives or consider it a New Year's Eve hot spot, I rate it a 4. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Light Weight)

FINS

Not sure why FINS is all capitalized....perhaps it is an acronym for
something? Favorite Imbibing Night Spot? Fine Intoxication, Nice
Saloon?
In any case, the Barflies entered the establishment on lower Union
Street, and on an early Wednesday evening, it was empty save for a
young, gregarious, and beautiful blonde barmaid named Amy. The bar
itself is pleasing enough in matters of decor, rusted metal cut-out of
various marine life hanging on the walls. Mr. Merlot, somewhat of a
connoisseur of public restroom design and architecture, noted with
pleasure the full length old-school ceramic urinal in the men's room.
The draft selection was adequate, but nothing special stood out. Mr.
Draft opted for an old standby, a Guinness Stout. Mr. Mix peeled out
from his pocket a small, dogeared notebook in which he had written
down drink names, suggestions from others, and reputations, and got to
business asking Amy if she knew how to make a half-dozen eclectic
drinks with silly names. Although Mr. Mix is the Barflies' resident
"mixed drink" drinker, he tends to avoid the mixed drinks of legend-
no martini, no Manhattan, no gin-and-tonic, no rum-and-coke, no
daiquiri. Instead, Mr. Mix usually seems to favor drinks that taste
like desserts or sweets (the Oreo Cookie, the Oatmeal Cookie, the
Carrot Cake) or are dripping with sexual innuendo (the Dirty Girl
Scout, the Slippery Nipple, Sex on the Beach.) Mr. Mix asked Amy for
an Orgasm. Mr. Draft did not note the ingredients but can assure all,
that it was adequately creamy. Amy gave Mr. Mix a couple of drink
suggestions, including one which she refused to verbalize, but wrote
down the name and recipe into Mr. Mix's notebook. (It was called the
Pink Pussy, which compared to asking for an Orgasm, seems rather
quaint.) On another note, free chicken wings were available as
munchies, which the Barflies quite enjoyed. Even a Fresh Nap Moist
Towelette was provided to wipe away the sticky fingers mess. FINS is
a good bar, well deserving a second visit, preferably on a Friday or
Saturday night when things get a bit busier. It rates an
8-and-a-half. Now can someone tell me if FINS is an acronym?

Bar 908

The first thing to Mr. Draft upon entering Bar 908, in the Times
Square Building, was the stench of cigarette smoke. Now Mr. Draft
won't needlessly cast aspersions, and wouldn't dare to suggest that a
bar in New Bedford wouldn't gladly embrace the no-smoking regulations
which have been imposed, but nonetheless, the stink was there.
Clearly, Mr. Draft and his colleagues did not see any smoke or anyone
smoking...perhaps, the smell lingered on the clothes of other patrons
or maybe someone had sneaked a butt earlier...but the air was foul.

That aside, Club 908 was dark and cavernous, with a large and empty
dance floor, befitting its' reputation as a meat market. Aside from
Mr. Draft and his colleagues that evening (Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot and Mr.
Razzamatazz), there were but a few other customers, including two
young women, who approached our assembled group and announced
themselves as "the Bar 908 Welcoming Committee". Now granted, the NB
Barflies are a ruggedly handsome and virile group of men...even Mr.
Merlot, with his baseball cap fashion faux pas, is not without his
charms...and one can see why we would attract the attention of a
couple of young women...but it appears they may have only been looking
for smoking companions, as they invited us outside to join them for
some cigarettes. Alas, the Barflies may endure a little liver damage,
but we avoid lung cancer like, well...lung cancer.

The bartenders were affable enough and made girly drinks for Mr. Mix
and Mr. Razzamatazz without too much sneering. The draft selection
had the usual macro-brew selections, and a few better than that. Mr.
Draft opted for a Sam Adams Octoberfest. The trip to the men's room
meant descending more staircases than one needs to in the New York
City subway system in order to catch the F train, but at least the
men's room didn't stink of cigarette smoke.

Mr. Draft only can give the 908 a 5, but perhaps, if air-scrubbers
were utilized, that rating could climb up to a 6.

Merlot

Why does a bar that specializes in overpriced martinis with cutesy names name itself after a red wine? And those over-priced martinis with cutesy names are so contrived that the bartenders need to continually refer to a recipe guide. (Although the himbo bartender managed to construct an Absolut martini without guidance.) Merlot is trying to hard to be hip and failing miserably. The ambiance, if it can be called that, is dominated by decor chosen by George Jetson on a drunken shopping spree at Ikea, with a nod to bad op-art.

Merlot was the only bar visited by the Barflies (so far) that had something resembling a dress code. Ironically, Mr, Draft's Barfly colleague, Mr. Merlot, was asked to remove his baseball cap upon entering the establishment (a fashion tip thoroughly endorsed, by the way, by Mr. Draft, who believes that baseball caps should not be worn by grown men, unless they are at a ballpark,,,and actually playing baseball.)

And, of course, as the specialty is martinis, there were no drafts. Except the chilly reception...

No drafts, an atmosphere stolen from Futurama, a needless dress code, and over-priced martinis...Mr. Draft gives it a 2.

Freestone's Bar and Grill

The fourth bar on the Barflies' hit list. Disclaimer: Mr. Draft has a long relationship with Freestone's, as he started going there when it first opened over twenty-five years ago, when Mr. Draft was an impressionable young art student. Mr. Draft brought a number of art-school hotties there with hopes of impressing them with his good taste. Sometimes it worked, more often it didn't. Mr. Draft enjoyed many evenings there with friends. Mr. Draft had a post-college graduation dinner there with his parents. Mr. Draft spent many Saturday afternoons there, nursing martinis, reading the New York Times, and swapping jokes with Norm the bartender. Mr. Draft first date with the future Mrs. Draft was at Freestone's. When Mr. Draft moved away to Vermont, and returned to New Bedford for periodic visits, he always visited Freestone's, usually with wife and offspring in tow. Mr. Draft loved the Syrian nachos, the stuffed quahogs, the cheese fondue, the carrot cake...

But now, when Mr. Draft visits Freestone's, he feels as if he is visiting a dear, old friend...that is not doing very well. The decor, which seemed vibrant and exciting and sophisticated in the early 80's now seems...dated...and stale. The food is not what it was...even my old stand-by- the aforementioned Syrian nachos- were over-cooked and unappetizing. A change of ownership is probably partly to blame, but it seemed like it was growing old even when the original owners were still there. It may be that New Bedford has so many more interesting options than it did back in '84 when Freestone's was a hotspot. Or maybe, it's just tired.

The draft selection is good (not excellent) and the staff is as hospitable as always, but until Freeestone's takes a leap forward, and shakes up the menu and brings the decor into this century, I can only give rate it a 6. I want my dear, old friend to get better...

And, yeah, the Sam Adams was fine.

Cork

One of New Bedford's nicest bars, the Barflies descended upon it with joy. Cork is upscale, with great tapas and fine selection of potables, but certainly not overly-pricey. The bartender, an affable young man, (too affable for some of Mr. Draft's colleagues) was able to explain to Mr. Draft was grappa is, and gave his hearty opinion on some of the nearby competition. (Hey, Mr. Draft likes a strong opinion now and then...) The bartender provided some (free0 munchies that were potato chip-like but shaped like wood shavings....hell, i I don't care if they were real wood shavings, they tasted great. Mr. Draft opted for a Belgian bottled beer, a Hoegardden which was nicely hoppy and satisfying, Cork has a pleasant, upscale feel to it without feeling "too-much"... it could easily compete with any of the nicest bars on Newport's Thames Street. Beyond the bartender, Mr. Draft and his colleagues took note of a beautiful blond hostess and equally beautiful brunette waitress....pushing our ranking on PAS (physical attractiveness of staff) beyond the highest ranking of 10 to 11, (Insert This Is Spinal Tap! joke here) All in all, Mr. Draft rates this really sweet bar an 8.