I saunter into the dim establishment, hands crammed into the pockets of my jacket, eyes darting towards the bar, painfully unaware of the burly older gentleman in the Nike sweatshirt asking for the details of my party. Luckily my associate, one R. Asa P-H, has taken the point on this one and as he bargains with the gatekeep I evaluate the scene. Couples with death grips on each others hands, cautiously conversing in low tones so as not to violate the tiny privacy barrier hovering in the 5 inches between their tables and the tables of the other couples. A strangely circular ballet. This writer wonders if a family style smorgasbord would not serve to entertain the diners further, but something tells me that the clean cut man in the blue polo wouldn't want to brush arms with the curly haired, atari t-shirted wonder plopped next to him. No matter, the logistics of this idea are complicated and, in fact, completely tangential to the meaning of this narrative.
P-H parts from his conversational counterpart and returns to discus with myself and our third, the final piece in the puzzle. This associate has transferred to a nameless state lately, preferring instead to be defined by one pink, pom-pomed winter hat and others' attempts to qualify the garment into a phrase or noise. I am too smart for that business and instead communicate directly, forgoing the naming conventions of the modern world. After all, who I am to judge his self-representation, a rose by any other name and such... but I digress. P-H has struck a bargain allowing us to be casually swept to the end of the bar for an hour whilst they ready a table. Drinks will be served with a smile and a glance to our shady demeanor, but we needn't accept either, the drinks will do just fine thanks.
A mere twenty minutes later and we're eyeing the chef's offerings like rabid hogs. Had we known that our journey would stall at the prospect of a horrible table to hungry mouth ratio we surely wouldn't have allowed starvation to drift into the afternoon. The plight of the restaurant industry is greatly exaggerated (or is it understated? I struggle to decide) but this Curley's carries a tone of steadiness. I pay my silent respect to JM himself and sip my gin and tonic modestly, suddenly hoping that the man I so rudely brushed off at my entrance is not the namesake. However, I will not bore you with my musings and instead will move to the food.
A corner table becomes available and my companions and I wander towards it, allowing P-H to again move first as he shoves a humbly bearded man to the side and steps one foot onto the booth stating, "here we shall dine, good sirs." The waiter, a simple man with a deep v-neck, seems unamused by our aplomb but concedes. We make quick with the menu -- brined cucumbers, dredged and dipped in oil, followed by finely chopped cow's meat patties, earnestly stocked between the two halves of a leavened bread ball. As we sit we converse amongst ourselves -- politics and love for the most part, each of us struggling to be the Casanova and the Castro of the crew concurrently. It all ends in a beautifully jumbled mess, not unlike the plates of food that are sat before our ravenous mouths. We hardly pause to thank the service before tucking in.
20 minutes later and the table is clear with only dabbles of grease remaining alongside the handful of curled potatoes that escaped the plate upon arrival. A small crowd of fellows has gathered to marvel at our gusto, but we pay them no mind, choosing instead to pick our teeth and praise the meal we have just consumed. The settling of the bill is meaningless and thus, I shall skip it, instead choosing to note the high ceilings of Mr. Curley's hall, both in physical and culinary terms. Eyes beady, I gazed upwards wondering what miracles of philosophy had escaped northwards from the mouths of the diners that night and eventually concluding that if my own party was any standard there was nothing but hot air to go around, and that was just fine for now. Upon our exit the portly doorfellow again approached us and this time I saw to our conversation with kindness, exchanging a cheerful farewell and expressing my desire to return. One quick round of fives between my companions and I outside the tavern and we were off into the Boston night.
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