christine "the blur" l.'s Profile

A justification of every last star I can muster out of my being.

- There's something very romantic, in the original sense, about a townie, shadowy, gang's-all-here dive hidden among the respectably polished Back Bay / South End -- especially while it's serving the genius nonsense that is Italian nachos, some of the tastiest and hugest red-sauced meatballs (no pun intended) and $3 tallboys of 'gansett

- All the queens, young and old, come out to play. This place is like gay Cheers crossed with an chintzy Italian-American joint. That is meant in the best way.

- Kitchen open until 1am, bar open until 2am. Every. Day.

- The pasta specials are fantastic (a smoky sausage tomato penne dish one time was phenomenal; lasagna of the day is comfort REDEFINED and as large and cheesy as a football fieldl), and the pathetic iceberg-plus-wan-tomato Italian salad presented with bottled dressing is the worst ever. This delights me to no end.

- Stilettos on the ceiling. A mounted stag wearing sunglasses. A rubber chicken. The Virgin Mary. All of this -- plus about 3,285 other festoony vignettes -- can serve to amuse yourself at the bar.

- As for the martinis --  the cup, quite literally, runneth over.

Herein among the objects that I have acquired during my jaunts through the gaggle of delights curated by the eccentrically charming owner, Amy: an iridescent black feathered fascinator, six tiny vintage cocktail glasses stamped with a black and gold coin pattern, a cherry-printed drawstring-waisted dress, a plumber's promotional day-planner from 1970, a guide from the '50s describing Boston's neighborhoods penned by a Mister Edwin Bacon, and a necklace with two articulated gold/silver fish that incite a coo everywhere I go.

Other items that I regret leaving behind: a complete graphic designer's drafting set, slinky Whiting and Davis handbags, vintage camera monstrosities, a knit sequined beret, a retro metal camping canteen, ridiculous punched-leather boots, and a yellow rotary phone built INSIDE A BOX.

There is nothing you need here, and there is everything you need here.

A shaggy logic dictates the inventory, a random assemblage of all things strangely irresistible. The shopgirls are totes adorbs, flipping the LP ever so often, reigning over a counter housing a gazillion types (give or take a million) of costume jewelry. Every object is a completely fantastic find, priced very reasonably, somewhere between thrift shop and high-end vintage.

You will either spend 30 seconds in here or 3 hours. Consider yourself warned.

I'm here almost everyday, laptop in tow, internet button magic shooting out of my fingertips, my regular routine of big-mug-dark-roast (of excellent Intelligentsia Coffee) and a ridiculously buttery egg and cheese sandwich oozing through the airy crumb of rosemary focaccia.

I'm lucky to witness the daily rhythm, from morning (groggy locals biking by for a latte and scone to go), through afternoon (when the grad students and stroller-toting guardians assume their places), to night (when live bands play to a captive audience lit by flickering ambient votive candles).

In short, this cafe is a gem of Somerville, if not Boston.

There's the regular rotation of (colorful! weird! amazing!) art on the walls, rustically pretty sandwiches piled high with seasonal greens and accompanied by a cute scoop of slaw, and expansive spaces for nuzzling with a book and tea (including the back room, with a central fireplace chute and board games aplenty; and the enormous vault, a vestige from Bloc 11's previous incarnation as a bank).

The staff is extremely professional yet laid-back-friendly-like, vegetarians and vegans can eat contentedly, everything is designed to be reused or composted, locavorism is in full swing (from Taza Chocolate to New England farmed produce) and the outdoor seating area is a lush, landscaped refuge.

Especially kick-ass: The postings board near the back, where multiple layers of eventful neighborhoodiness guarantee that Somerville doesn't even know what it means to be sleepy. Which brings us back to caffeine. Delicious, delicious caffeine.