RSS
Home
At Post 390, everyone doesn't know your name - yet
Print
Email
RSS
Subscribe
Everyone knows it's nearly impossible to park in the Back Bay or South End without a sticker.
So when a new restaurant opens up with valet parking, the suburbanites will come. And they did, on a recent Tuesday night, during what may or may not be the end of this country's most recent and severe recession, to Post 390, where I had dinner with my good friend Eve from Newton.
The evening plan debate went like this:
Eve: I heard about this great new restaurant from my cousin (also a suburbanite).
Me: There are lots of great neighborhood places near me, and we could share my friend's parking spot in the South End.
Eve: I want to try someplace fun.
Me: How about Brasserie Jo (close to my apartment and a faithful standby with valet parking)?
Eve: Been there, done that.
Me: You choose.
She picked me up and we drove all of six blocks to the renovated post office annex on the corner of Stuart and Clarendon Streets (I just moved back to Boston from New York: I use cross streets in directions). As we arrived around 6:30, the valets were running and the two floors of the corner restaurant glowed with warm light in the too-early dusk, highlighting the growing crowd inside.
As we waited for the valet, I went in to scope the situation. The hostesses (do we still call them that or is there a more politically correct term?) were very friendly and welcomed us warmly. We were in. Eve was happy.
Glancing around, Eve sized up the crowd. "Maybe you'll meet a man here."
Newly single, or sort of single, as it happens (SOS?), I get this a lot. I rolled my eyes at her.
We sat upstairs, not my preference at first, since the main floor was very lively. As the room filled up, though, I was glad for the relative calm, still infused with energy. Somehow we both felt very comfortable, a rarity in restaurants unless one is a regular. The chairs, even the ones across from the banquettes, were cosy, the backs made of lattice saddle leather, I was told, and the seats cushy, wide with comfortable arms. The light is good enough to read, but not glaring; flattering for a 40-something SOS woman.
Our waiter, Michele, was probably one of the most pleasant people I've ever met, and I immediately tried to imagine a scenario in which he could move in with me. Platonic, of course. He didn't interrupt, did tell us his name, didn't give preferences of which foods to order unless asked, and was prompt with our "bone dry" Grey Goose martinis, welcome alongside the tasty duck dumplings served with cabbage.
And then people we knew started to appear. I, a new city-dweller in Boston, and Eve, a long-time suburbanite, have what one might describe as an eclectic group of aquaintances. Nevermind that I used to be married to Eve's brother in law, and we still think of ourselves as related, with an extended, yet fragmented "family."
In they came, a South End woman I met on a charity committee, with her husband, a window dresser Eve has known for years, and finally, wait for it, my ex-husband's suburban parents and their friends.
It must be the valet parking.
Although everyone was more than cordial (kisses, even), second martinis were in order.
Generally, in a restaurant, I like to order food I wouldn't make at home. You'd be surprised what a studio apartment kitchen can turn out (a foodie at heart, I don't let substandard working conditions dampen my culinary ambition), but I almost never cook a hamburger at home. Maybe it's the idea of saving all those leftover buns, slicing so many vegetables for so little use, or the difficulty of buying truly worthwile ground beef.
And I find that simple restaurant food is most telling. Post 390s burgers are stellar, juicy (perfectly rare), served with crisp fries (mine, but I shared), cole slaw or salad. And a cold martini, which, even the second time around was just right.
Did I mention the staff is beyond pleasant? If so, I'll say it again, because this is a most extraordinary find, and the right mix of people makes all the difference in a business atmosphere. After a warm sendoff (I sadly left Michele behind), it was time to reconnoiter.
Billed as a "modern tavern," Post 390 opened at the beginning of October. Rumors included terms such as "comfort food," "good prices," and a stunning renovation. My fifteen year old daughter weighed in: "Oh, yeah, everyone's talking about that place, Post 390, all the [suburban] moms want to go there." There you have it.
Must be the valet parking. But go for the food and ambiance. Even if you had to search for a nearby parking spot, or heaven forbid, walk a few blocks, you wouldn't be sorry. And you might even see someone you know.
