Progressive idea leads to South End dinner crawl
Remember progressive dinners - of a '50s evening, one would merrily go from house to house with friends, each hostess serving a different course? Well, neither do I; despite being around back then, I never actually attended one. But from magazines and TV, I gleaned that they would eventually be a feature of my social life: mock turtle soup at Ozzie and Harriet Nelson's, tomato aspic on a lettuce leaf chez Cleaver, followed by seafood Newburg by Donna Reed, and then baked Alaska at the Ricardos ("Looo-cy, I thin the ice cream s'pose to go on the inside!").
Alas, as far as I can tell, the progressive dinner went the way of the fondue pot. Oh wait, that's back. So maybe there's hope for the prog. din., but I'm not waiting around. One recent Thursday evening, a companion and I undertake a stroll from one dining room to another to another, starting with drinks and hors d'oeuvres and, over the course of five stops, racking up a full meal. But we do it among the eateries of the restaurant-rich South End, where we are pretty sure we won't encounter anything made with cream of celery soup.
We start in the bar area of banQ on Washington Street. It's early, the evening just starting to come together, so our anthropologizing is pretty tentative: Do lawyers really drink wussie-tinis? Why are there two hostesses? And then the biomorphic plywood ceiling catches our eye and our conversational attention. As the evening passes, we imbibe scene at least as much as food, even though most of that is delicious. You could certainly do a hard-core foodie tour of South End restaurants, but we're for keeping it casual. BanQ is a good start, the fire-charred scallop and the quail and date pastry triangles (from a list of Asian amuse-bouches) providing little jabs of flavor to go with cocktails. The discreet distance between tables makes for nice chatmosphere. And in the view out the front windows of spacious boulevard, the evening seems to stretch pleasantly before us.
Off we go to Estragon on Harrison Avenue for a round of appetizers. We take a comfy love seat in the lounge. Here is another inviting prospect of low-rise metropolis, plus early-dusk views of the sky, thanks to the tall windows. The furnishings - swags, gilt, marble, wan wallpapers - are chicly dowdy. It might be the salon of a somewhat batty great-aunt with utterly assured tastes, and the effect is cordial and extraordinarily easeful. Civilized conversations - no Red Sox maniacs, no tiresomely cooing lovers - hum along at other tables. We order tapas of crispy chickpeas and house-made Basque sausage, both of them earthy and completely irresistible. Which brings up a point about restaurant hopping: Don't stuff yourself early. In particular, lay off the bread. We get bread, mini-naan, even with our tee-niney nibbles at banQ. At Estragon, we get a whole loaf. Bread's gonna kill you in the stretch. If you can't resist it, have them take it away. It'll give them something to talk about at the waiters' station: "My deuce just sent back the bread basket!"
Our situation at Estragon is so comfortable that departing is like leaving a way of life. But we have a reservation at Hamersley's Bistro, for entrees. The Tremont Street institution is our gustatory anchor, a good thing to have during an adventurous crawl.
None of Hamersley's many fans will be surprised to hear that the food is excellent - the crusty-then-juicy roasted bluefish in particular. It comes with pickled beets and a lemony aioli flecked with pistachios. We also order a dish of braised wild mushrooms, whose rich sauce we mop up with, curse it, wonderful sourdough bread. Scene-wise, the place is a stumper. The dining room is quite attractive but shtickless and without allusions, the service professional and circumspect. Worse, the other diners seem to be here to eat, of all things, not to amuse or intrigue moi.
By the time we leave Hamersley's, we are about three hours into what will be a four-hour-plus evening. A comfortable pace is essential, whether you're crawling as a pair or a gang of companions. Satiation, alcohol consumption, and native vigor are all factors. A neighborhood, and weather that permits a restoring walk between destinations is the ideal. And obviously, a progressive dinner is suited for a slowish weeknight rather than a weekend.
One of us - no names, but she who ate too much bread! - is flagging by the time we settle on Union Bar and Grille, on Washington, for dessert. Frankly, we're hoping for a place that's quiet and low-lit, possibly with mattresses. The Union dining room is indeed slowing down, but the adjacent bar is cranking up and beginning to spring leaks of hilarity; we just feel out of synch, so make a quick dessert of the good house-made fruit sorbets - mango, black raspberry, and strawberry - before departing. "Not ready to commit" is the handy, heartless motto of the progressive diner.
Though we worked up an itinerary beforehand, in the South End or other restaurant-dense venues, you could keep it entirely flexible if that's your mood.
Case in point: Pho Republique beckons to us just down the street from Union. Though the restaurant has a full menu, we're only after a nightcap. (Our total for the evening, including tips is $187.) We couldn't have picked better. Call the decor garage-Asian: lots of red, Balinese masks on the walls, flickering lights. The small crowd (the hour is close to 11) is mellow, and even squares from the burbs fit in. Funky, welcoming, goofy, and charming - if there's such a thing as post-hip, this is it. Even Ward Cleaver would like it. 