Black Watch Pub

Sociologists, historians, cultural scholars, and long-time readers of the New Bedford Barflies Post take note: this is the first bar that the Barflies visited and reviewed that had existed as another bar which the Barflies had also visited and reviewed. Take notes.

Not long ago, the Black Watch Pub, on Dartmouth Street, about midway between Cottage Street and Rockdale Avenue, had different ownership and a different name. It was, formerly, the After Five Bar and Grill. The After Five was unremarkable but its extensive beer selection etched it a rating of 7. Not long after the review was posted on this blog, a series of comments from one or more individuals appeared. Those comments were not simply about the bar but contained vicious personal attacks about the current owner. Whether those comments are justified or accurate is unknown but one thing is known: this space is an inappropriate channel for that kind of ugly acid commentary. The Barflies took a vote and unanimously decided to eliminate the comments that were determined to be of a nature best described as libelous, even if not in the strictly legal sense of the word. The First Amendment may guarantee unabridged free speech, but the NB Barflies do not. The commentator may have valid points- or may not-- and he is welcome to find another venue to voice them.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled review: the Black Watch presents itself as a quasi-Scottish bar (even though Irish flags hung in deference to St. Patrick's Day), and it comes across as patently false. New Bedford has significant populations of those descended from Africa, Cape Verde, Portugal, Quebec, England Ireland, Mexico, Greece, the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Puerto Rico, Italy...and bars that evolve from those cultural identities seem natural in NB and environs. Scotland...not so much. Except maybe as a "brand" appeal to make Robert Burns Day as commercially viable here as St. Patrick's Day or Cinco de Mayo. Please...if there is a significant Scottish population in this area of which Mr. Draft is unaware, apologies are offered. (And yes, to Mr. McManus of the near Cape, and your kilt...a nod and a glass of Glenfiddich next time Mr. Draft enjoys your company!)

The Black Watch retains the large draft selection that the After Five did, and that is the only saving grace. Andy, the bartender / owner, was certainly amiable and capable enough, but in all in all- the bar was virtually empty save for the Barflies and a couple of enthusiastic regulars, who were only too-happy to see some new faces. As the space is large, the sparseness of customers made it seem particularly vacant. And nothing kills a bar faster than a vacuum. Even nature abhors that. In fairness, the Barflies' visit was on a Wednesday night....maybe it hops on a Friday. But Mr. Draft doubts it. It get a very middle-of-the road 5...and fingers are crossed. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Elixir, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Tap.

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

Tilia's Cafe and Restaurant

Mr. Draft would guesstimate that there are a dozen-and-a-half bars on Acushnet Avenue, on the northern stretch between Coggeshall Street and Brooklawn Park. The vast majority of these are, by name, menu and/or reputation, "Portuguese bars." That term may not mean much outside of cities like New Bedford, Fall River, or Newark (New Jersey), or in other American cities which have substantial Luzo-American communities, but Mr. Draft will hazard a definition: a bar, pub or tavern in which the majority of the clientele and staff are of Portuguese-American ancestry, where the predominant language may be Portuguese, where at least a fair sampling of the vinho and cervaja may be of Portuguese import, and where the food served is primarily traditional fare such as linguica, kale soup, bacalhau, caciola, and the like. Tilia's, about smack dab in the middle of the Avenue, about midway between Coggeshall and the park, clearly falls into that definition. And it also falls smack dab in the middle as a bar. Tilia's, which is rather non-descript from the outside, is a bit more appealing once one passes through the door, but still a bit dark and drab. There are no beers on tap, and Mr. Draft worked his way through a tasteless bottle of Miller Chill Chelada Style, while Mr. Elixir and Mr. Mix played a game of Ms. Pac Man on a temperamental and malfunctioning console, that Elixir only got to start with a Fonzie slam. The decor was unexceptional...a blue felt covered pool table, a couple of televisions suspended above the bar, a jukebox and a lottery ticket vending machine. In fairness, the Barflies did not pass through the door to the much larger, backroom restaurant, and did not eat. But we came to drink. Tilia's gets that smack dab in the middle rating: 5. Roll call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix., Mr. Elixir, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Merlot.

Davy's Locker

Davy's Locker is a venerated, old-school seafood joint, with a mid-priced menu and a middle-of-the-road crowd, situated on the wrong side of the hurricane dike's flood gate in New Bedford's south end. On the backside of the restaurant, overlooking an ugly parking lot, which overlooks a rather lovely waterfront, sits an attached but distinct lounge, about the size of a double-wide motor home. Mr. Draft was pleased to see that the lounge had a personality and decor that was quite different from the restaurant proper. Having expected the bar to be decorated with buoys, life preservers, plastic crustaceans, and tables assembled by laying slabs of thick glass perched on lobster traps...it wasn't that. But Mr. Draft isn't certain that the decor projected the ambiance one would want either...the furniture and vibe was only slightly better than the late Merlot on William Street. In an attempt to project hip, it only resonated a chic best described as reminiscent of late 70's porn films, with odd red mood lighting over the bar, faux black leather love seats and chairs, a corrugated aluminum ceiling, and tables that look like were made from the leftover parts of unused exercise equipment. The only thing missing to really get the porn vibe (other than the "actors and actresses") was some funky wah-wah music. But decor aside, it was ...okay. The young barmaid, Leandra, was friendly and professional and the draft selection was adequate. Mr. Draft opted for a Buzzard's Bay seasonal ale, as did Mr. Lupilin. Mr. Merlot drank a merlot (!), Mr. Mix drank something coconut-infused and Mr. 3BOES sucked down another of the draft options. Interestingly, though known of the Barflies indulged, 101 different martinis (a term loosely used in this context) were available on the menu, and this explained the lettering across the bar back mirror with the legend that read "Martini 101". The bar at Davy's Locker is- thankfully- not what one expects, but on the flip side, what it is isn't much better. It gets an "okay" rating: 5.
Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Lupilin

Restaurante Alianca

According to veteran Barfly Mr. Cork, the food is excellent at the Restaurante Alianca. But the assembled group of Barflies was out to drink, not to eat...but that said, the aroma of codfish emanating from the kitchen was appealing, as were the posted menu offerings: calamari, fish cakes, shrimp cakes. The bar side of this small, south end restaurant was packed with regulars, who were friendly and jovial. The barmaid was a stunningly beautiful young woman named Lisa, who reminded one of the Barflies (who shall remain nameless) of a young Sarah Palin, but Mr. Draft thinks that particular Barfly may have been on the way to inebriation. Lisa actually looked more like Diana Prince- and if the dear reader does not know who she is, then that reader needs to familiarize him / herself with silver age DC Comics. Alianca had a dismal draft selection- Coors, Coors, and more Coors. Mr. Draft settled for a bottle of an imported beer called Super Bock, which, if taste- or lack thereof- is any indication, may as well be the Coors of Portugal. The light in the cooler behind the bar was bright enough to serve as a beacon to ships coming into a fog-laden harbor, and if that light were dimmed, the room would seem less harsh and more comfortable. Mr. Draft will return to the Restaurante Alianca, with Mrs. Draft (and perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Cork) some evening to try the great-smelling codfish, but as a bar, the place only rates a 5. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Cork, Mr. Merlot, Mr.3BOES, Mr. Whiskey, Mr. Brew-haha

Legends Sports Pub

Located on Covell Street, between Acushnet Avenue and Bellville Avenue, in a residential neighborhood, Legends Sports Pub is an unpretentious, standard-issue neighborhood bar, with few bells and whistles. On the night of the Barflies visit, which corresponded with Game One of the World Series, one of the four large television screens aired baseball, while the other three sets played CNBC, Nascar racing and Dog the Bounty Hunter...all sports of a kind. Mr. Cork dismissed all the televisions, with their schizophrenic glow, as "electronic eye-candy." Legends offers pool and a too-loud jukebox, but only a very limited draft selection. Much to the delight of Mr. Mix, the special drink menu, posted on a dry-erase board, includes "martinis" made from such candy store staples such as Snickers, Butterfingers, and peanut butter cups. (Mr. Draft absolutely draws the line at drinks made from Bazooka Bubble Gum!) The pretty, young barmaid, Tabitha, proved to be a capable keep, but there were only three other customers other than the Barflies constituency. Legends has a regular, North End customer-base and it is the favorite of many...but Mr. Draft fails to see its' charms. It gets a middle-of-the road 5. Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Cork, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Elixir, Mr. Whiskey. Mr. Brew-haha

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

Pub 126

Located at 126 Dartmouth Street in a rather non-descript building sits Pub 126. Upon entering, Mr. Merlot had a flashback to an earlier era, when the building housed a neighborhood Portuguese restaurant that was operated by the grandmother of a friend. Another memory was about to be born. There was no one in the pub except the owner/manager and the breathtaking barmaid, a Puerto Rican beauty by the name of Yamadie. As the Barflies settled onto the barstools, Yamadie explained that a few friends had been in earlier and bought her a couple of shots of tequila, as it was nearing her birthday- February 29th. She divulged her age- seven...in leap years and attempted to guess the ages of the Barflies, almost always guessing somewhat lower than the actual age. She was a good barmaid, and she knew how to woo a crowd of middle-aged customers, playing to her strengths and the usual male flirtatiousness. Mr. Mix asked her to make "something sweet and creamy" (as much as Mr. Draft is tempted, he will not insert a sexual innuendo here). She quickly mixed up something with vodka, Chambord and Bailey's, which she said she didn't have a name. The Barflies christened it a Yamadie. When asked about the lack of crowd, she explained that there was a regular Wednesday-night darts league that gathered there, but on that particular evening, they were engaged in a contest at another place. She thought that by 9:00, the dart league would arrive and things would get lively. She further noted that Thursday was karaoke night, and while she didn't work that night, she always showed up, usually to sing a Madonna tune. There was no draft beers, no grapefruit juice and no decorative atmosphere to speak of...but the Barflies might go back on a Thursday just to see Yamadie sing Like A Virgin. She rates a 9 plus...the pub itself only gets a 5. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Greyhound, Mr. Cork, Mr. Merlot)

Fernando's Sports Pub

Right next door to Tony's on County Street is Fernando's Sports Pub. Inhabited by a jovial crowd, this place was much more inviting. Although the draft selection was predictably weak, and not a drop of grapefruit juice was to be had for Mr. Greyhound, the bartender was friendly and competent. The owners of Fernando's have seemingly tried to decorate the establishment in the style of tavern in the Azores, with stucco and faux brickwork, as well as a very large mural. The mural itself can best be politely described "naive realism." Forgive Mr. Draft a small lapse into art criticism as he explains some of the unique features of this stunning wall painting. Depicting an Azorean village and harbor, the sun projects rays downward in a cohesive shaft of light, much like the mothership in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. In the peaceful azure water, triangle wedge sailboats float, oblivious to the pterodactyl-sized seagulls flying ominously above. Mr. Draft suspects that after a few more cocktails, the mural might become more convincing. All in all, Fernando's- although in a somewhat blighted neighborhood- is warm and the regulars seem, well, regular. Not a bad place to grab a drink...if you ain't an art critic. It gets a 5. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Greyhound, Mr. Mix, Mr. Elixir, special guest Madame Mai-Tai)

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)

Knucklehead's

Mr. Draft has been familiar with the catchphrase for this place for some time, without having been there, as it it plays heavily into their newspaper ads: "Where Everybody Knows One." Kinda funny, a little parody of the famous line from the Cheers theme song : "Where Everyone Knows Your Name." But "One" what? On the Wednesday evening that the Barflies visited Knuckleheads, they found out.
Four Barflies entered Knuckleheads, and the only other customers were a couple sitting together, and four other men seated across the bar. Mr. Sazurac joked to them as we entered..."Oh, just what you wanted to see come in...four more guys." They laughed about it, as the male-to-female ratio in the bar was nine to two, and the two were the female half of the couple, and the very young looking and perky barmaid, Vanessa. Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Cork, Mr. Martini, and Mr. Draft settled in and ordered a round. Knucklehead's is situated on MacArthur Drive, in an odd industrial area between the waterfront and Route 18, across from a Fastenal hardware distributor. The bar itself is nothing special, but to be fair, a visit on another night may have yielded a larger and more gender-diverse crowd. As Mr. Draft sipped a somewhat tasteless pineapple-infused vodka, several more men entered the bar. And then a few more. And a couple more. By the time the Barflies were about to leave, the male-to-female ratio in the place was twenty-one-to-two, as the lady with the guy and Vanessa were the only of the fairer sex there. Mr. Draft assumes that the One that every knows is the barmaid, the only woman in the place without a guy at her side. Knucklehead's rates a Five. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Cork, Mr. Martini, Mr. Sazurac)

Campino

When the Barflies' entered Campino, Mr. Cork was heartily greeted by the owners, who were, evidently once his neighbors. Located on South First Street, Campino is a non-descript place, with a minimalist draft selection (Bud and Bud Light) and on the night of the Barflies' visit, only one other patron, who quietly played cards with the owner, Manny. His wife, whose name Mr. Draft does not recollect, was the bartender. She mentioned that business was drastically off since the Michael Bianco factory raid of March 2006, in which 361 of their employees, primarily Guatemalan and El Salvadoran illegals, were arrested and deported. Mr. Cork and Mr. Sazurac drank espresso with their liquors of choice on the side. Mr. Draft ignored the Buds and opted for a Sambuca on ice. In short time, the bartender made it known that her husband, Manny, wanted to buy the Barflies a round. Campino is the first establishment visited by the Barflies in which such a gesture was made. And it is appreciated. Manny's wife poured Mr. Draft a small glass of two Cape Verdean rums, one clear and one dark, which was potent and had a nice afterburn of molasses. The decor of Campino is a hodgepodge of intent, and items on the wall beyond the usual beers ads include a carved wooden whale, a metallic matador, a harpoon, Red Sox banners, and the hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil monkey trio. But it still has a sterile feel to it. The bar is covered with Formica out of a 1960's suburban kitchen, and the walls are covered with a plasticky, textured material that Mr. Sazurac noted is the same substance used to cover the walls of temporary shelters put up by FEMA in post-Katrina Louisiana. It looks as thought the walls could be hosed down with a power washer, if need be. The Barflies thank Manny for the round, and wish him nothing but good fortune. Campino rates a 5. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Cork, Mr. Sazurac)

Me & Ed's

Located on the end of Brock Avenue, near Fort Taber, Me & Ed's is the southernmost point in the city where one can sit down and and have a drink. While not a bar proper, a lounge is located in the comfortable cellar of this longtime Italian eatery. Mr. Draft remembers visiting Me & Ed's when he was a boy, with his parents, kid brother and sister, and his godmother and godfather (after who he was named: Uncle Mr. Draft.) Then, as now, it was family friendly and inexpensive and a great place to grab a thin crust pizza, a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, an antipasto or a bowl of spumoni which, back in the day, seemed positively exotic. On the night of the Barflies' visit, (with new recruit Mr. Sazurac,) Mr. Draft and Mr. Cork drank a selection from the Buzzards Bay Brewery. Mr. Mix, prodded out of his comfort zone of sweet and creamy girly-drinks by Mr. Draft, had a Manhattan, as did Mr. Sazurac. As Mr. Sazurac drank his, Mr. Mix whined. The barmaid, Sue, wearing a name tag made of Scrabble tiles, was efficient and cold. (Coldly efficient? Efficiently cold?) During the Barflies' visit, most of the other patrons appeared to be of the Greatest Generation, to utilize Tom Brokaw's term. (In other words, they were geezers). Me & Ed's is not a bad place to grab some Italian grub, but it is sedate, low-key and so unhip it needs a walker. It's stuck right in the middle- it gets a 5. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Cork, Mr. Sazurac)

Rainbow's End

The Bad: In it's previous incarnation, this bar was known as Puzzles, and on Groundhog Day, 2006, some demented neo-Nazi scumbag by the name of Jacob Robida entered, and after having a drink and confirming with the bartender that, yes, it was a gay bar, pulled out a hatchet and a handgun and attacked several patrons. The Good: It's moved on. On the evening of the Barflies visit, all were keenly aware and disturbed by the memory of Robida's violently homophobic actions, but encouraged to see that the bar had come into its' own as a proud, openly gay bar. The name change and the sign - using the graphic image that has become visual shorthand for "gay," the rainbow arc- were steps in the right direction. There were no draft beers available, but the bottled selection was adequate. Mr. Mix, channeling the spirit of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, ordered a Cosmopolitan, while admiring a vintage video game in the entrance way. The bartender, Ken, was friendly and professional and armed with a ceiling mounted array of upside-down liquor bottles, assuring that each patron gets exactly the correct allotment of booze in his glass. A small stage was adjacent to the bar proper which would soon be the setting for a drag show, which a poster promised would feature, among others, "Miss Diane Ross" and "Miss Paris Hilton" and "a lite pastry buffet." Frankly, the Barflies were more curious about the pastry than the Ross and Hilton wanna-bes. The Ugly: The place is a bit dank, with the decorative highlights being strings of tiny Christmas lights and some kitschy gold-painted statuary situated in alcoves. Gay doesn't have to mean campy. And the restroom could use a good scrubbing. All in all, the Rainbow's End is tight in the middle of the ratings scale: a 5. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Cork, Mr. Martini)

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.

The Red Dragon

The inaugural visit of the NB Barflies...I am weepy with sentiment... In all fairness, the Red Dragon is not truly a bar per se, but rather, has a small (four stool) bar within the Chinese restaurant. Near the Freetown border on Acushnet Avenue, I believe it may be the most northern point in our quest to visit (and drink in) every establishment that has been granted a liquor license and has a "sit-down" bar (as opposed, say, to a pizza parlor that serves bottled beer at the tables). When we walked in the bar of the Red Dragon was being utilized as a counter for orders of Chinese food that was yet to be picked up. When we told the hostess that we were not there for dinner, but there to "just have a drink", said bar was quickly cleared and a lovely and sociable barmaid magically appeared. I assume that the bar is infrequently used, save on those nights when the restaurant is crowded enough as to warrant having a Scorpion Bowl or a Zombie while waiting for a table. As is Mr. Draft's want (yes, I will write in the annoying third-person), I asked about the draft selection, and though it was not vast, it was certainly serviceable...I selected a Tsingtao and it was fine. Although we didn't order any munchies from the menu, the lovely and sociable barmaid provided a plate of fortune cookies, both chocolate and the kind that taste like a sugar cone. The ambiance can only be described as typical Chinese restaurant (thought I do wonder why there is a large photo of a Jack Russell terrier hanging by the bar). All in all. I enjoyed the Red Dragon, but can only rate it a "5" as a bar, but I promise to go back there, with Mrs. Draft, Teen Daughter Draft, and Sonny-Boy Draft to indulge in its' real specialties, which I can only hope include spring rolls, General Tso's chicken and wonton soup.