First Base Cafe

Located in a grungy, factory-heavy neighborhood on Cove Street, the First Base is yet another one of those places that appears intimidating and rough from the outside, but is not nearly as bad as one anticipated after one enters. Don't misunderstand Mr. Draft...there is nothing very nice or enticing about this joint, and it certainly isn't particularly inviting but it seemed reasonably safe to Mr. Draft, especially in the company of four fellow Barflies, one of whom is probably carrying heat. But that said, Mr. Draft would certainly not let Mrs. Draft go there wearing her sexy, little black dress or let his mom go there for a sombrero with twenty-dollar bills sticking out of her purse. In reality, the First Base is grey-beige drab and womb-like, if by "womb" one means a discarded, pissy-smelling, damp corrugated cardboard box. The bartender- although friendly enough- only gave his name as Machado. Whether that is his first name or his surname is unknown. His skills as a bartender were subpar...Mr. Mix ordered a rum-and-coke, but it appears that Machado ran out of Barcardi in mid-pour, as he seemed to substitute it with something vaguely berry in flavor. Not that it was a surprise, but the draft selection was quite meager, and Mr. Draft ordered a CC-and-ginger, but Machado didn't have ginger ale on hand, so Sprite was used in its' place, culminating in a cocktail that was simultaneously too watery and too sweet. Mr. Merlot asked for a Portuguese wine- don't have it- and was offered (and accepted) a "New York wine" dispensed from a cardboard box that was the size of a bathroom hamper. There were sandwiches available: cacoila or bifana for $2.50 or cheese for $1.00. Much to Mr. Draft's dismay, Mr. Mix actually ordered a cheese sandwich- which turned out to be a bland American cheese served on a dry bun, bereft of condiment or even a slice of onion. Mr. Mix couldn't eat it all, and his appetite is rarely lacking. Despite the First Base name, there was little or no baseball paraphernalia around...but Mr. 3BOES described Machado as "a foreshortened Joe Torre". Sport ignorant and sport apathetic, Mr.Draft had to utilize Wikipedia to find out that Joe Torre is the current manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers. That about as close to a baseball theme as the Barflies could muster. The First Base doesn't get to first base. It rates a 2.
Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Lupilin

New Bedford Sports Club

Mr. Draft will admit to a tendency to not quite remember things quite the way they really were. In my memory, the party was always more exciting, the conversation more revealing, the girl way hotter. But, Mr. Draft would swear that on his last visit to the New Bedford Sports Club- granted, probably twenty-years ago- it was bigger, livelier and heavily populated with a youthful crowd, playing pool on one of many tables, flirting, doing shooters. listening to a jukebox. But on the the night of the Barflies' visit, it was none of those things. It was rather drab, despite the overly bright lighting and the pale blue walls, and a faux-granite bar top, with an extremely limited draft selection and an absolute absence of female customers. All of the customers were portly, Portuguese middle-aged men, none playing pool on the lone, azure-felt covered table. The bartender seemed to go missing for long periods, and a seemingly regular customer walked behind the bar and served the Barflies, apologizing as he did it. A video game- unplayable- flashed a digital message reading "bad hardware", which, more-or-less, sums up the NBSC experience. There are many great Portuguese-centric bars, clubs and restaurants along Acushnet Avenue, but this isn't one of them. It rates a 2, which still makes it better than Red J's Colonial Lounge.

Redwood Saloon

Located in the South End, on Cove Road, on the safe side of the hurricane dike gate, the Redwood Saloon has garnered a reputation as a biker bar, but on the night of the Barflies' visit, there was nary a biker to seen. Instead, the few customers that were there were drunken old men, or obnoxious loudmouths. The barmaid seemed more interested in shooting pool than tending bar, and, oddly enough, the two wall-mounted televisions were tuned not to a game or the news, but to Access Hollywood. One patron shouted to another, "Hey Jim- what'cha doin"?" Quickly came the response- "Fucking drinkin', what'da think?!" The draft selection was limited to Bud , Miller and Killian's Irish. Bagged potato chips, nuts, and pumpkin seeds were available to munch on. The bar itself, a small and nondescript brick building, can only be described as an odd semi-naive embodiment of some one's Jack Daniels and television induced idea of a western-style saloon. Outside, there were actually a couple of hokey hitching posts. Inside, an O'Keefian cattle skull hung on the wall. There were swinging saloon-style doors between the bar and the back room. But unlike the Long Branch Saloon- the classic drinking establishment from Gunsmoke- there was no sense of order provided by a Marshall Dillon, or amiability provided by a Miss Kitty. However, there was a bit of liquor fueled entertainment provided by a Festus Hagen-like regular named Bob, but was called Lefty by another regular, because of a lame right arm. This place ain't exactly about being respectful or gentlemanly. As can be expected, Mr. Mix made fast friends with Lefty, and the Barflies had to drag him away from the sparkling conversation that they were engaged in. This bar would have rated a 3, but the overwhelming stench of stale piss that Mr. Draft encountered when he used the lavatory spirals it further downward to a 2. Which is still better than Red J's Colonial Lounge. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Cork, Mr. 3Boes)

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.