huck

Using the Salinger spelling of that wonderfully evocative word.

Boston was all too brief, now a distant blur of excessive wine consumption at a tasting festival thrown by our friends at The Second Glass, chased with the innards of a giant champagne bottle the following morning during brunch at The Eastern Standard, “candle pin” bowling at Louie’s in Somerville, my good friend Ryan’s sad-eyed dog, and of course: some very, very delicious oysters.

Props to my indefatigable tour guide and great friend Andrea for suggesting this place. Buried beneath London, we drank red wine and shot the shit while some douchey couple (Italians?) mugged down hardcore in front of us. Get a room, guv’na.