Mee Hong

At the southern end of Route 18, at the intersection of Cove Street, sits the unremarkable little building that houses Mee Hong, a favorite South End Chinese restaurant. The four Barflies in attendance occupied 100% of the available stools at the bar that was about the size of an average kitchen counter. In all fairness, the Mee Hong is not truly a bar, but rather a good-sized joint with the afterthought of a bar, that seems to exist, primarily, as a mixing station for the restaurant's drinkers, and, perhaps, to idle away a few minutes with a fruity rum drink, while awaiting one's takeout order. But it is a very good spot to enjoy some lobster Rangoon or pork ribs (which Messrs. Draft, Mix, 3BOES, and Merlot did). There are no draft beers available, however there are a fair assortment of bottled beers. As is the norm for Chinese restaurant bars, Zombies. Love Potions, Scorpions, Volcano Bowls and the like are available, most of which seem to be made with an assortment of rums, fruit juices and coconut milk. Mr. Draft ordered the Mee Hong Gentleman's Special, which sounds like something that would be offered at the Foxy Lady, and it was a predictable and overly sweet cocktail concocted with two rums, a mai-tai mix, and a splash of Bols Apricot Brandy. (A note to the women: there is also a Mee Hong Ladies' Special but Mr. Draft - and not even Mr. Mix- was willing to cross the gender divide to indulge.) Mr. Mix ordered, and seemingly enjoyed, a coco aku, made with rum and coconut milk. The Mee Hong's resident bartender, Sara, did her job efficiently but she was not very conversational. The decor is an unfortunate mix of harsh lighting, quasi-Chinese kitsch, and bad diagonal paneling...but stick to the Rangoon, and all will be well. Good restaurant...not so good bar. As a bar, the Mee Hong is a 4. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr, Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. 3BOES

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.

Bom Apetite

Bom Apetite is a quiet, little Portuguese restaurant in the shadows of the Bellville Avenue mills. One can pass through a glass door from the restaurant, or from the avenue entrance into Bom Apetite's quiet, little Portuguese bar. A bit overly lit and somewhat stark, the small lounge area contains a a short length of bar and a half-dozen or so tables. As the bar stools were all occupied, the Barflies ordered drinks from Tony the bartender and sat at one of the tables. Mr. Draft ordered a Sambuca on the rocks, as no draft beers were to be had, and Mr. Greyhound again had cranberry juice splashed in with his vodka. Mr. Mix sipped at- and didn't finish- a fruity concoction of pineapple juice, rum and a mystery ingredient, while Mr. Sazurac indulged in an espresso, with somethin'-somethin' on the side. At least three televisions were on, broadcasting a soccer game, news, and something resembling an afternoon soap opera- all in Portuguese. All the customers, except the Barflies, were speaking Portuguese. And Tony took our orders in English, but one sensed Portuguese was his first language. The Barflies enjoy drinking in a city that is ethnically diverse and know that only the surface of the Portuguese (and Hispanic) bars have been scratched, with many more to come in the coming weeks. But this bar was just a bit too plain...a bit too vanilla. A language shift alone does not make a bar cosmopolitan in feel. This place rates a quatro. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Greyhound, Mr. Sazurac)

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)

Cafe Ilhavense (Island Cafe)

This place picked a theme and stuck to it. The interior walls are painted in tropical green and mango orange in this small neighborhood bar on the corner of Bellville Avenue and Sawyer Street. The music, uncomfortably loud, blares something that sounds vaguely Carribbean but with a distinctly Portuguese twist, sort of Carmen Miranda meets Passionada. The shelves of the back bar, seem almost overstocked with an array of fruit-flavored syrupy liquors in colors commonly found on a pair of madras pants. Or a Hawaiian shirt. While the barmaid was friendly enough, she doted on the customers who seemed to be usual visitors, while regularly shaking her plump hips to what-might-have-been Portuguese ska. The music was so loud as to almost feel opressive, especially in an establishment that probably doesn't have much more squarte footage than the average eat-in hotdog joint. The beer selection- on tap- was limited to Budweiser and Michelob Amber Bock. Mr Draft instead sucked on a bottle of Sagres, and wished he was in Bermuda. Not a bad place for the block regulars...for everyone else- it's a 4. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. 3BOES)

The Pub

The Pub? Is that the best they could do? Were all the good names taken? Anyway, The Pub is a bit of a rundown, rough-and-tumble bar in a bit of a rundown, rough-and tumble area. But that said, the Pub, located on the corner of North Front and Tallman Streets, is not without its' charms, the most noticeable of which is a brassy, buxom, brunette barmaid named Nikki. Wearing a ring made from a dollar bill on one of her fingers, she welcomed in the Barflies with flirtatious enthusiasm and a warm smile. The Pub is a somewhat dingy place, the walls stained yellow with the nicotine of thousands of cigarettes, but it is a comfortable place, true to itself. A few handwritten signs, posted in English and Portuguese, warn patrons not to smoke, and to pay when served. (Indeed, good advice for all!) The beers available on tap included the predictable- Bud and Miller- and the rarely seen- Old Milwaukee. Mr. Draft drank the Old Milwaukee, which had not much improved since his college days, when it was referred to as a "Squawker". The wine selection was very limited...Lancer's was offered by Nikki, as the wine- on-tap selections were obsolete. The Pub offered many of the usual barroom amenities, including a pool table, Foosball, a lottery ticket vendor, and an ancient change machine. Nikki told the Barflies about the deejay-centric entertainment provided on Friday and Saturday nights, and advised us to just ignore the idiots that sometimes gather on the corner, outside the door. (More good advice!) Ultimately, The Pub is- and will likely long remain- a tired and yellowed neighborhood joint- only worthy of a rating of 4. But, that cheerful and positive Nikki elevates it to a 5. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Cork, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Mix, Mr. Martini)

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)