skinny girls & mayonnaise

There are two things you notice pretty quickly about Boston — a lot of really old stuff, and a lot of Irish pubs.

The evening we arrived there was a tornado watch. As the sky churned in hues of deep red and black, we found a restaurant from the 1890s called Amrheins with reasonably good clam chowder and a good selection of beer on tap.

The Birthday Girl at Fenway

The next day we took the Freedom Trail. For those unfamiliar with Boston, this is basically a red stripe in the sidewalk that leads you on a very reasonable walking tour of Boston’s most important historic sights — the Boston Commons; several burying grounds where you’ll find the earthly remains of the likes of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, John Hancock and so forth; the Old North Church; Paul Revere’s home; site of the battle of Bunker Hill and so forth.

Around midday, somewhere between Faneuil Hall and the Old North Church, we felt the need to sit and lunch. We peered into the window of the Union Oyster House, Boston’s oldest restaurant, where from behind the glass the oysterman put a tiny fork in the hand of a lobster who waved it at the mortified children.

Dining at Paul Revere’s house

“Can we NOT eat there?” Willa asked

A few doors down was Saus, a tiny joint Leslie had spontaneously discovered on Yelp which served Belgium pomme frites with a variety of dipping sauces and frik sandwiches, based on a traditional Danish fried meatball. The food was delicious, especially washed down with a local lager in a tall can.

Thursday, my daughter Imogen’s fifth birthday, was all about Fenway. We arrived at the stadium around 1 p.m. and found our seats in the right field bleachers. I was concerned when I purchased the seats — pretty much at the far rear of the stadium — that we wouldn’t be able to see a thing. But Fenway is to Dodger Stadium what a small theater is to an arena — intimate, manageable, relaxed. We quickly bonded with the Fenway Faithful around us — a few of whom were even rival Oriole fans. I thought how savage these easy-going East Coasters must think us New Worlders with our blood-thirsty Dodgers-Giants rivalry.

The counter at Saus

There were interesting dining options at Fenway — bowls of meatballs, plenty of sausage selections, Boston pizza, seafood galore. The waitress at one of our previous evening’s dinners had told us to be sure to get a “Fenway Frank,” the Red Sox equivalent I guess of a Dodger Dog. I settled for the place that had the shortest line — at the far end the food pavilion: chicken nuggets and really good fries for the kids, a tasty steak and cheese sandwich with grilled peppers and onions for the Bigs.

After Fenway, we rode the red T line back into downtown and found a superb public house on Beacon Street — Emmett’s. There was a story on the wall about the colonist whom the pub was named for. But I was too tired, overwhelmed by energetic children and thirsty to read about it. I simply sat back and enjoyed my couple of IPAs.

Imogen in the window at Emmett’s

Imogen, deprived of her fifth birthday wish for a sushi piñata, settled for Japanese food for dinner. The restaurant we found was just fine — a bit pricey, nothing exceptional by California sushi standards, but the food was fresh and tasty. Immy dug into her salmon sushi with the usual relish.

Back at the hotel, we settled into the complimentary (and very good) chocolate chip cookies offered at request. In our three nights here, we’d eaten about 30 or so of them collectively.

Tomorrow we would set out for the coast of Maine, where New England’s seafood wonders awaited and I would launch my search for the perfect lobster roll.