Review: The Last Hurrah

Dear readers,

You find the Sybarite on tour and in the field. I write this from possibly my favourite bar in all the world, The Last Hurrah in the Parker House in Boston.(That there is a hurricane a-comin' is neither hither nor yon; rest assured that your faithful correspondent will do his best not to fall victim to Irene's very un-eirenic fury.)

The Parker House is America's oldest continuously-operating hotel, albeit the building has changed. It opened in 1855, on the corner of School Street and Tremont Street, and the current, very charming, building dates from the 1920s. It has been a central part of Boston life ever since; Charles Dickens stayed here during his time in the USA, and associated (one would like to think caroused) with luminaries of American literature like Oliver Wendell Holmes and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; John F. Kennedy was a frequent visitor, holding his bachelor party here, announcing his candidacy for Congress in the Press Room, and proposing to Jacqueline Bouvier in Parker's Restaurant (at table 40, since you ask); and, bizarrely, both Ho Chi Minh and Malcolm X worked here, though not at the same time.

The Last Hurrah is the hotel's bar. And what a bar it is. It is named for Edwin O'Connor's fine novel of Boston politics, in which the veteran pol and several-times mayor, Frank Skeffington, commits himself to one last campaign in the city. Although the city in the novel is unnamed, it is quite clearly Boston, and Skeffington is a thinly-veiled portrait of James Michael Curley, the mercurial master of Boston politics for much of the 20th century. The Last Hurrah opened in 1969, in the part of the hotel which had once been the barbershop where Curley used to have his hair cut.

This is a bar in which you can easily imagine shady deals and backstairs negotiations going on. Seats are leather and comfortable, the lights dim as evening comes on, and world-weary and worldy-wise barmen stand behind a fine L-shaped bar. Cigar smoke curling towards the ceiling would fit the place very well, were it not for the strictures of Massachusetts state law. There is a fine range of draught beers, and an impressive cocktail list. He who has not sampled The Last Hurrah's basil gimlet cannot truly be said to have lived; their "perfect" martini is pretty damned good too, an interesting and slightly retro twist on the usual recipe involving both dry and sweet vermouth. Some of the cocktails are a bit too outré for the Sybarite's taste - a Lights Out is Plymouth gin, ginger simple syrup and fresh lime juice topped up with Pilsner Urquell, a Blue Dress is Absolut, blue curaçao, lemon sour and (Heaven help us) 7-Up, and, in a triumph of bonkers-ness, a Last Hurrah martini is Absolut with Bloody Mary and clam juice, served with a garnish of a chilled shrimp. But let a thousand flowers bloom.

There is also a superb range of spirits. 22 bourbons, 15 whiskeys, a dozen tequilas, as many rums and no fewer than 60 scotches. If you can't find something you like in that selection, you need to rethink your priorities. And, as if that was not enough, there are a dozen ports, which can be sampled with different kinds of chocolate.

The food selection is modest, perhaps, but more than satisfactory, majoring on hearty sandwiches (on one of which your intrepid correspondent almost choked last year) and rib-sticking classics. This very evening I had an excellent sirloin tip stew, while my companion feasted on meat loaf with mashed potatoes. Desserts include, of course, the Boston cream pie which is the hotel's contribution to gastronomic Americana.

The clientele is mixed. Many, of course, are hotel guests. A good number are pols from the State House or City Hall, both within metaphorical spitting distance. Some are ladies who lunch, or weary office-workers. And there is a leavening of older men who sit at the bar and peer intently at the ball game on the screens above (remarkably, to one who is not a baseball fan, it is very unobtrusive). But all men and women are equal here.

A final word on the staff. I do find that waiting staff in the US tend to be more professional and more attentive, on average, than back home. Here, they are, perhaps, a mixed bag, but most are fine, and some are very good. But the Palme d'Or goes to Peggy, my waitress this evening and on many evenings past, who may simply be the best waitress I have been tended to by; cheerful, friendly but not intrusive, efficient, watchful and smart.

Et enfin. I probably have not done the place justice. It may not suit everyone. But, a simple plea: if you are ever in Boston, and you appreciate a good drink - of whatever sort - in fine surroundings, drop in. Sit back. Think, and savour. And maybe, just maybe, you may come round to my way of thinking that this is one of the very finest bars in the world. Peggy, another glass of merlot, I think...