Park Sports Cafe

In a rough-and-tumble neighborhood on Rivet Street in the south end, an unremarkable building houses the corner bar called the Park Sports Cafe. Less than two weeks prior to the Barflies' visit to the Cafe, there was a stabbing just down the street, a not unusual occurrence, and one gets the sense that caution be exercised when strolling around this area when night falls. But that said, there was something cool about this joint. Entered with a bit of unnecessary trepidation, Mr. Draft and his comrades were met with some good tunes emanating from the jukebox, and easily found seats in this comfortable, subdued, old school tavern. Mr. Draft was a bit discouraged by the draft selection- Bud, Bud Lite and Budweiser American Ale. Opting for the best of the three, Mr. Draft ordered the ale, Anheuser-Busch's recent foray into cracking the microbrew sensibility of like-minded drinkers. Unfortunately, the American Ale spout spurted, gurgled and refused to shut off, much to the distress of the harried barmaid, Heather, until a customer seated directly in front of the offending tap offered a strong arm to yank it back and stem the flow. Bud it was. The crowd was predominately older blue collar factory worker guys, wearing flannel shorts and baseball caps, with the exception of a young, hipster couple sitting at one end of the bar. They looked like no one else, but looked like regulars. The woman, cute and attractive in a dork-chic kinda way, with Clark Kent eyeglasses, had a streak of blond in her short cropped black 'do, and her gentleman friend, a tattooed dude who looked like Buster Poindexter with a long goatee. For moment, Mr. Draft was reminded of Williamsburg, the section of Brooklyn, a subway stop from Manhattan, that has become the home of thousands of hipster artists, musicians, poets and hangers-on, infiltrating the working-class immigrant neighborhood to create a new kind of melting pot culture. Perhaps...maybe...this is where the South End of New Bedford is drifting as well? This section of Rivet Street, with the increasingly popular Mexican restaurant and bar, Mi Antojo, a few blocks in one direction, and, in the other direction, the sorely missed Adega (soon to become the Fresca Grill), is morphing into some thing new and distinct for this City...hip. Mr. Draft's visit to the jukebox only confirmed the sense of imminent hipsterdom: is there another jukebar- outside of Williamsburg--- that has La Bamba, Tom Jones, and 10,000 Maniacs as options? It rates a 6.5...trying to be cool. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr.3BOES, Mr. Elixir, Mr. Sazurac.

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

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

South Side Annie's

More or less verbatim dialogue:

Mr. Draft: "Give me a Stella Artois."

Hilda the barmaid: "How about 'Hello...how are you?...May I have a Stella Artois, please?' "

And so, Mr. Draft received a quick lesson in conversational barroom etiquette at South Side Annie's and the Barflies were off to a good night. In reality, the Barflies approached Annie's with a bit of trepidation, as it is one of those bars that is often buzzed by, in a rather rough south end neighborhood. But as is often the case, our apprehensions were unfounded. Up until about eight years ago, a place called the Owl's Nest existed in that space, and that place had a reputation deserving of trepidation...and caution. But now, the roughest element seems to be Hilda's lesson in manners. South Side Annie's is actually a very warm, inviting dark wood saloon, which has a large television screen positioned above the bar, and an adjoining game room with pool table, video games and Foosball. The bar is festooned with an admirable collection of license plates from many states, and a digital reader board, which emits messages concerning specials and a quote-of-the-day. Mr. Draft enjoyed his bottle of Stella Artois, not overly disappointed that the draft selection was limited to Sam, Bud, Bud Lite, and Coors, as an adequate selection of bottle beers was available. Mr. Whiskey embraced his moniker and ordered a Jack-and-Coke. South Side Annies also gets a nod of approval for the traditional bar room offering of pickled hard boiled eggs, as well as stuffed peppers, as low-cost snacks. On the night of Mr. Draft's schoolin' by the cute and sassy Hilda, pitchers of Sam Adams were available for $5.00. Pleasantly surprised by all that awaited within South Side Annie's, the Barflies give it an 8. Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Mix, Mr. 3BOES, Mr. Whiskey, Mr. Brew-haha

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

Inner Bay Cafe and Grill

Across from the dike on Cove Street, there sits a small, elegant, old brick building that houses one of New Bedford's most charming bars...and there's a restaurant there, too. Years ago, Silmo Coffee Syrup was manufactured in that building, and a generation of New Bedford children- including Mr. Draft- gulped down countless glasses of coffee milk made with that sweet stuff. Now, the Inner Bay is in its' place and producing some sweet stuff of its' own. As Mr. Draft's tastes have matured away from coffee milk and toward good draft beers and old-school martinis, he ordered an Absolut martini. A very cute and gregarious barmaid, Gloria, proved to be quite skilled in her profession, making an excellent martini, so dry it was crispy, by doling out the vermouth with an eyedropper...clinically efficient and oddly elegant. Mr. Mix's tastes have not matured much beyond coffee milk, and perhaps in homage to the days of Silmo, he ordered an espresso martini...which is more akin to an Awful-Awful from Newport Creamery than a classic cocktail. But, it was pretty and he thoroughly enjoyed it.
According to Gloria, Thursday is poker night--- and on the night of the Barflies' visit, it was Texas Hold'em Night, but the Barflies exercised fiscal restraint and did not head upstairs to partake in the games. But that option, the Ms. Pac-Man game by the door, the fava beans served as a bar snack, the impressive menu, the comfortable and tasteful barroom, and Gloria herself won over the Barflies. The Inner Bay rates an unequivocal 9.

Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Whiskey, Mr.Brew-haha

Mi Antojo

Located in an old storefront that looks like it was shipped in from a San Antonio barrio, Mi Antojo is located in a rundown, tenement-packed neighborhood, right off Route 18, on Rivet Street. And it's a fun bar, and even better restaurant. As there was not a draft to be had...but plenty of bottled and canned beer-Corona, Dos Equis, Negro Modela among them- Mr. Draft settled for a Red Eye, a half-and-half mixture of beer and tomato juice, supposedly popular in Mexico, although the tomato juice is often substituted with Clamato, and a shot of tequila is often added. There was a language issue...the barmaid, Roxie, spoke no English and the Spanish of the Barflies is weak. Luckily, a friend of Roxie's- a woman by the name of Gloria- jumped into the fray- and translated the orders for Roxie, who did an adequate job. And Roxie was cute.
Unlike, No Problemo in downtown New Bedford- which the Barflies are quite fond of- there is nothing trendy or Mexican nouvelle cuisiney about Mi Antojo. It is decorated in the manner I expect a Mexican restaurant - in Mexico- to look like...without wrestler's masks or other tongue-in-cheek kitsch. The sides sampled at the bar- a thick, chunky guacamole and a esophagus burnin' salsa were excellent.
Visit Mi Antojo , drink at the bar...eat some good food with it. As for the language barrier...Mr. Draft just doesn't care when it's this authentic. It get an 8.
Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr.3BOES, Mr. Elixir, Mr. Moonshine

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)

Libad's Bar and Grill

If Mr. Draft's memory has not been diminished by over-consumption, Libad's, located about midway on Brock Avenue in the south end, was, in an earlier incarnation, the Beaumont Social Club. As a north end boy and a downtown college lad, Mr. Draft has only limited knowledge of the drinking establishments of the city's south end, primarily the missed and long-gone Smuggler's Den and Billy Wood's Wharf. And no knowledge of the Beaumont at all. But Libad's turned out to be a pleasant surprise. As the Barflies gathered outside, parking on a side street, note was taken of a large faux lighthouse attached to the backside of the building (and probably housing some esoteric piece of equipment), that was topped with razor wire. But it wasn't so ominous inside. The crowd was a good mix, with diversity in respect to ethnicity, race and gender. A few patrons played pool, some sat at tables, and a few were comfortably ensconced around the u-shaped bar. Large paintings of Bruce Lee and Jimi Hendrix (or Bob Marley?) hung on one wall, and the draft selection was more than adequate. But Mr. Draft opted for a cocktail, and ordered an Absolut martini, as did Mr. Sazurac. However, the young barmaid, Kristin, admitted that she had never made a traditional martini (as opposed to the many fruity and flavored martinis now common just about everywhere). She didn't even know where the vermouth was located, and the manager had to find it for her. As could be expected from a first-time martini-maker, it was less than an optimal drink. The vermouth floated on the vodka like oil on vinegar and it was a bit hard to drink...but Mr. Draft was a good sport and drank it anyway, hoping that her skills in this area improve. The Barflies felt quite comfortable in Libad's and Mr. Mix seemed particularly enchanted by the place, mentioning he'd like to come back on a Friday night, when the mechanical bull was available. Libad's actually offered a list of activities for every weekday night: Monday is free jukebox night, Tuesday offers tequila specials, Wednesday is the night for free pool, one dollar drafts are available on Thursdays, and of course, the aforementioned toro is the Friday highlight. Libad's also offered a hefty menu of pub food, including quahogs, onion rings, buffalo wings, pizza, and assorted burgers, sandwiches and salads. The mechanical bull balances out Kristin's heavy-handedness with the Martini & Rossi Extra-Dry, and Libad's gets a 7.5. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Elixir, special guest Madame Mai-Tai)

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)

Tony's Cafe & Bar

Shocked, I tell you...shocked! While Mr. Draft and Mr. Sazurac stood in a steady cold drizzle and amidst a wailing car alarm, waiting for other Barflies to arrive, a young man proffered marijuana! Did he think that Mr. Draft and Mr. Sazurac looked like the kind of individuals who would partake in illegal drug activity? Well, the street pharmacist may have had a point...but, nonetheless, the Barflies politely declined. Within moments, a new Barfly recruit, Mr. Greyhound arrived. (The greyhound refers not to a racetrack dog or a national bus line, but to the drink: vodka and grapefruit, garnished with a lime wedge.) Tony's is at the southern end of County Street in what many would consider a tough neighborhood. The barmaid spoke barely a word of English, and a Portuguese-speaking gentleman seated at the bar kindly translated our beverage requests. But no amount of cross-cultural verbal wordplay was going to find any grapefruit juice for Mr. Greyhound's drink of choice. He had to settle for a weak Cape Codder. Two more Barflies- Mr. Mix and Mr. Elixir- and Mr. Elixir's lovely companion, Madame Mai-Tai, arrived and this seemed a source of delight for a drunken old coot at the bar. Tony's is dark and a bit dank, and a poster of a big-breasted blonde pressing 'em against a motorcycle was the highlight of the decor. Tony's seems to function well as a neighborhood joint (weed available just outside the door!) but it offers little to attract anyone from outside the immediate vicinity. Tony's rates a 3. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Sazurac, Mr. Greyhound, Mr. Elixer, special guest Madame Mai-Tai)

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)

Adega

Situated in what was once the old Thomas' department store, Adega is an old world (but not old school) bar and restaurant transplanted to the south end of New Bedford. And the Barflies welcome it wholeheartedly. The decor is a study in timeless elegance, darkly quixotic and moodily European. Adega- which translates from the Portuguese as "cellar"- features one of the city's headiest (and heaviest) wine lists, as well as a better-than-usual draft selection. The array of high end vodka brands, in enough fruity and savory flavors to rival a Baskin-Robbins, is a bit mind-boggling. While Adega has a beautiful length of bar, and a very knowledgeable and skilled barman (John), it is primarily a restaurant. The menu is expansive and the delectables are available at the bar proper. Mr. Mix ordered a cheese plate, which turned out to be a canoe, filled not only with a variety of cheeses, but accompaniments such as guava (?) jelly, bacon, bread, and thick wedges of pineapple. The nature of Adega is inherently romantic, and as much as Mr. Draft enjoys Mr. Merlot's charm, Mr. Cork's sophistication, Mr. Mix' sense of humor, and Mr. 3BOES' boyish good looks, he'd rather be there with Mrs. Draft (who also has charm, sophistication, a sense of humor- and no boyish good looks). Adega 's only fault is that it almost too romantic...a great spot to bring that significant other, or some other you'd like to be significant, or the parents of that significant other to show them how well you treat her, but it certainly is not the usual hangout kind of spot. But what they're good at, they are damn good at. and the Barflies give it a 10. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix. Mr. Cork, Mr. Merlot, Mr. 3BOES)

United Fisherman's Club

The UFC, established long ago by a few fisherman, was, until recently, a dark and smoky place. Anti-smoking ordinance and a bold renovation changed that. Located on the industrial end of Orchard Street, the UFC has been transformed into a brightly lit and tastefully appointed bar and function room, appropriate for a party, wedding reception or mayoral inauguration celebration. On the evening of the Barflies' visit, a friendly and vivacious Brazilian barmaid- Ireni- warmly welcomed the crew and poured our drinks. Mr. Merlot took note of the substantial wine list, which offered a good variety of Portuguese vinos, all at excellent price. The Barflies snacked on small bowls of battered codfish, at the remarkable price of fifty-cents each. Mr. Mix drank a drink suggested by Ireni, in an enthralling accent, that was similar to a mojito. It was made with sugar and muddled lime but substituted Brazilian "moonshine" for the usual rum. Mr. Mix seems to recall that the drink was called a Hyperion, but the drink had such dizzying effect on him, that his recollection is not to be trusted. Ireni warned him to sip...slowly. He didn't. A few men sat at the bar, but most of the customers, mostly older Portuguese men, sat at tables playing cribbage or dominoes. A pool table was available but unused. The UFC is a pleasant and expansive barroom that fills a niche in the New Bedford bar scene..it rates an 8. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Cork, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr.3BOES)

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)