Matt C.'s Profile

The last time I wrote a Yelp review, Kendall Square was but a wee glimmer in a foodie's eye - a place where unsettling amounts of radio waves actually microwaved your Trade Joe's burrito for you.

Holy gentrification Batman! Firebrand Saints is but one of Graham's Number* of places offering premium craft ales, burgers sourced from more than one species of hoofed animal, and the requisite pierced, tattoo'd bar staff to make your pinstriped self feel like a total square.

So what sets it apart? For one, a relaxed attitude that defines what a bar should be. No stupid policy requiring food at tables. Awesome, repurposed 1980s truck hoods banged and welded into high-top tables. Great service with minimal eye-rolling at requests for refills on chips and salsa, and "would ya, would ya mind splitting this, like, 7 ways?" requests for the check.

But that's happy hour. The food, oh the food! Serious butchery in play here. Try the sirloin, chuck and brisket burger, mid-rare, with American Cheese. On the latter, yes, it does cost $1.50 for Land o' Lakes. Hey, at least they're honest. The fries are hand-cut - basically a potato sawed five ways and lightly fried. The only stinker (heh) was the Firebrand Saints deviled eggs. Anchovies, curry powder, and boiled egg. Try if you dare.

Your inner British pub fan will be pleased with Fuller's ESB on draft and half-pints for the whole beer program. In the other direction, your inner frat boy will be pleased with pitchers and plenty of pork rinds.

Add to all this glory the various aeshtetically-pleasing interpretations of Sports Center (I'm told all MIT algorithms) that adorn the zero-edge display wall behind the bar. Finally, a visual representation of my confusion when it comes to the Jets play-by-play.

Firebrand Saints has enough to set it apart from your average Cambridge pub. The location draws a crowd - particularly after work - so go early, go often, and eat well.

* = math major joke**
** = I was not a math major

Upon walking into Café Fixe, you get the idea that, like a hipster haircut or Sonic Youth's solos, someone spent a lot of time making this place look so like they didn't spend a lot of time making it look a certain way. But don't let initial impressions deceive, they are slinging some seriously delicious brew here.

Long a Starbucks loyalist, Café Fixe has become my weekend jaunt, the kind of place where people that like coffee, real coffee, without belt-widening sugar sludge or burnt diesel fuel taste go. The kind of place where hangovers are cured with an iced latte and a Slice Françoise, where world problems are solved over a shared pot of French Press, where chapters are written, colleges are decided on, marriages are proposed, babies are born, etc. Okay, maybe not that last one.

Don't let the staff's mild manner fool you, behind that aloofness lies an Ambassador to your caffeinated future, a willingness to share an unadulterated love of craft. I dare say this place is locked in solidarity with the Publick House - to deliver f'n fantastic product, expertly prepared and served. One caveat - baked goods are fresh and delicious, but that comes at a price.

I recommend the lattes in the winter and the iced lattes in the summer. Notice how there wasn't any kind of "skim, half cholesterol, no sugar, 7-pump, with whip, polybycarbonate cluclose dioxofentine" modifier used. Yeah, that's the way it should be.

And on the sixth day...

Okay, I'll stop there before I wildly offend someone. Besides, there's enough godification of Steve Jobs on the web already, but staring up at that suspended Apple logo from down below on Boylston does make

In the year since this place opened, I've stood in two long lines. First, for the grand opening, which stretched all the way to Comm Ave. Why? It made sense at the time. Second, for the iPhone 3G, where I befriended a variety of people who had no idea what they were talking about ("I heard from a friend's cousin who played bass in a band with Steve Jobs in the 1970s that the iPhone runs Windows Mobile, which is great because I can play World of Warcraft when I'm on the T") but were friendly nonetheless.

Worth it? Probably not. But that's the Apple appeal. Ever since my first Mac Plus as a kid - I've gone practically apeshit giddy over everything this company releases, and probably will stay that way until they start getting all virusy and stock-optionsy.

Phenomenal customer service. They've replaced my MacBook battery twice at no cost, apologizing repeatedly for the "less than perfect" quality and wishing me the best. You do have to make an appointment, but service is usually prompt and often dynamic and entertaining - this is not the Geek Squad, texting on their Sidekick while they "install" your fifteen-cable Sony Vaio.

Great store flow. I think you know that a ship is well captained when you are helped at every step of the way without feeling like someone's out to make a sale. When I wanted some extra storage for my iMac, the salesperson walked me through each model with brevity and tact. He avoided waxing on the irrelevant and left me to my own devices, not muttering anything but "Ok, have a great day!" when I said I would probably end up purchasing online.

All-in-all, prompt, efficient service, great atmosphere, helpful staff. Even the guy they hire to keep the stairs clean ("Did you know Steve Jobs holds a design patent on them, but he didn't even do anything to help build them? Crazy!") is cordial. Five stars.

Whoa! Where'd you come from, good-lookin' Fin's sushi?

The Cleve: Undercover cops posing as homeless people, blown out ex-Blockbuster, weird office building comprised mostly of insurance companies, omglol with meatball boyfriend holding keys to BMW and five 30 racks of Labatt, etc.

Cirque du Cleveland: Fin's Sushi. Supercuts.

Ye gads, this place is great. Fresh fish, prompt and courteous service, interesting rolls, meticulous chefs. Really just a fascinatingly delicious - and affordable - local joint for sushi. Even something as simple as a spicy tuna roll has a delicious extra kick. Beats Fugakyu on price and doesn't turn into a scene from Coyote Ugly like Privus after 8pm on a Saturday.

Go!

After my shirts returned from my old dry cleaner with a sandpaper patina, I decided to shop around for a new cleaner.

I had long assumed that Dependable was the kind of place that folded shirts into boxes, or dry cleaned bowler hats, or provided the odd bow tie repair. But actually, what I found was an eco-friendly, person-friendly, all around great establishment. They literally go through each shirt, noting the color and any special fabric requirements, and have excellent turn around time.

Clearly all of this - overhead on fancy Newbury and Coolidge storefronts, standard express service, friendly, kind employees - comes at a cost, and it ain't cheap. The good news is that coupons abound, and you can rest assured your threads will return good as new.

To summarize the Handsome Cleaners experience, one need not look further than the sign on the door of the dry cleaning office: "Professional service! Affordable prices! Tailoring and dry cleaning at your service!" - under which someone has scrawled, "Don't come here." Ah defacement of property - the original Yelp.

Cleaning services started off okay, then my favorite shirt returned looking like it was used by the costumers for Fight Club. Shortly after that, shirts started shrinking at an absurd rate. I know I enjoy a snack from time to time, but good god, size 15.5's shrinking down to 7th grade Catholic school uniform size is not the result of the occasional bacon egg and cheese.

Not exactly the most polite service, either. Silly credit card limit and "fudge it" approach to changes in order - needed that dry cleaned rather than pressed? We'll just make a (handwritten) note on this receipt, here. There's a 30% chance it'll be part of your order when you pick it up next week!

Unfortunately, Washington Square leaves us for want of honest dry cleaning yet again.

You know that scene in every episode of Hell's Kitchen where Gordon Ramsey, in his permanent yell voice, takes his minions to some gleaming restaurant filled with happy customers and a kitchen staffed by the children of Epicurus? Then he yells some more and some of the people cry because they know they will never run a restaurant that good? Yeah, that's actually Stella.

After two visits, I'm convinced it can't possibly get any better. Great drinks, perfect food, and kickass staff is the trifecta of restaurant excellence.

The wine is boss (boss, by the way, is one of those words I plan to bring back into rotation in 2009) - first visit we had several glasses of an excellent merlot recommended by the waitress, second time a round of winter ales and prosecco left us feeling warm and ready to eat.

Dinner arrived quickly, but not in that "how long has this been sitting back there?" kind of way. The arancini is so delicious that you'll end up with flashbacks to how good it was. You'll be sitting in front of a failure pile of a pizza at some crap place and want to jump in the fastest cab possible down to the South End for some risotto ball excellence. Split it with another for a perfect way to kick off a meal. We've tried the mushroom pizza, the gnocchi, the orecchiette and sausage, the artichoke hearts - it's all ridiculously good. It's even better when the chef gives you two bowls of the butternut squash soup on the house as you wait for your entrée. Yeah, that happened for real.

Be sure to get there early and grab a seat at the bar for a pre-dinner drink and just take in the scene. Stella, now that's boss.

I've held off on a review of the Roadhouse, cautiously optimistic that the cries of barbeque heresy by fellow Yelpers would be assuaged by improvements to the menu or changes in staff. I found it sad that the same tireless workers who birthed The Publick House have had such a rough start bringing quality BBQ to the Brookline area.

Perhaps Roadhouse would have better luck if the entirety of their waitstaff carried the same level of honesty as my waiter last Wednesday. After recommending some hoppy IPAs for a friend visiting from the West Coast, we ordered the cactus salad and the pulled pork plate with a side of sweet potato salad. Staring blankly for a minute, our waiter offered his condolences, saying a) that the cactus salad was no longer on the menu because it was gross and only offered for the novelty of eating cacti and b) that the sweet potato salad was the most god-awful disgusting side anyone had ever dreamed of concocting, ever - even after six or seven different attempts at a recipe.

So noted. We adjusted our orders accordingly and were happy with the burger and bowl of chili, neither of which could be called gross or god-awful. Great beer was poured and, ultimately, good food was had. A satisfying meal delivered with brutal honesty? The Roadhouse is ok in my book.

Fireplace, what sorcery has though wrought in thy kitchen? Does that even make sense? It doesn't? Okay, hopefully this is a bit more articulate:

The mussels arrived smelling not unlike the Delaware River, that great body of water separating New Jersey's vibrant factory coastline from Delaware's voluptuous landfill. Upon further examination (via both taste and sight), we noticed that one mussel consisted entirely of a black-ish sandy sludge, mixed in with mussel sinew and tendon. This was undoubtedly the matter from which Alien from Alien v. Predator was conceived.

Our entrees arrived not soon after we pushed the rogue crustaceans aside, and again,  our stomachs were filled not with satisfaction, but disappointment and regret. The only exception to this was the goat cheese/walnut tart, mysteriously served on a bed of McDonald's salad. The roasted vegetable farfalle would've been excellent had they stopped at roasted vegetables and farfalle and decided not to add that half a container of heavy whipping cream and half barrel of Morton's salt, a recipe found in the 1954 edition of "Keeping up with how Mrs. Jones Cooks Terribly."

Redeeming The Fireplace is the live jazz on Wednesdays, and the excellent wine and cocktail list. Come for the tunes, pour some wine, but vote no on the food.

Hefty drinks, dark corners, prison chic appointments, and Frank Sinatra and Lindsay Lohan mugshots to stare you down. I need nothing else in a bar.

The great thing about Alibi is that even if you wander in late you can always find a corner of a couch or a protruding rock wall with iron bars to keep you and your date well shielded. Occasional investment banker yah dooding here, but at a manageable level, mostly identifiable by orders of martinis with twists of lemon ("you know, with the paring knife so that it curls around, like I saw Giada DeLaurentis do that one time on that show I watched on my 62" plasma. Thanks, bro").  

Table side bar service is an option if you are a high rolling diplomat, or simply out to impress and rack up Visa rewards. Food is standard bar fare, and I was once told it gets carted over from Harvard Gardens. Great outdoor spot in the summer and even better place to warm up in the winter.

So put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City via the Liberty Hotel. Actually, we'll see about that Atlantic City part as the night goes on.