"I know this place in Boston, it's really cute... I just hope we all get in the door." So spoke the leader of the pack, her followers oblivious to the double entendre that was to become all too clear as the evening progressed.
As the young innocents trekked whole-heartedly to Downtown Crossing in search of said "cute" place, we imagined the possibilities: dreamy atmosphere, cushy booths for chatting, luxurious ladies rooms, elbow room. A place where one doubts one will "get in" is almost guaranteed to be the hot ticket for the night, right? What our fearless fellows did not realize, however, was that the difficulty in getting into The Littlest Bar is not due to exclusivity or even to extreme popularity. It's due to size.
Recall: "I just hope we all get in the door..."
In a space that feels about the size of a Wren single, you very well may walk right past The Littlest Bar. It doesn't help that the actual bar is a few steps down and into the building, which at this point feels more like a cave. The Littlest Bar makes the most of its scant subterranean space, and is always packed. To the rafters. With about 30 people. Thirty interesting people. The bar's dimensions are somewhere around 30 feet by 15 feet, so chances are you'll be rubbing elbows with the regulars or sharing a stool with an Irish expatriate. Don't worry, the locals are friendly enough, as we first-timers soon found out.
"Can I see your ID please?"
"You're kind of little for a bouncer, aren't you? And we've already got our beer."
"I'm not the bouncer, I just want to see your ID."
"We're all 21, sir..."
"C'mon, it'll be fun!"
Not exactly our idea of a good time... Cue the all-time favorite escape route, the emergency trip to the bathroom that requires the migration of our entire flock.
We about face, fully intending to re-group in the privacy of our stalls, giggle like a gaggle of geese at the ganders gracing the bar, and plan a new attack.
We about-face, and are presented with a serious obstacle; squeezing through thirty shiny, happy people who have packed themselves into this Downtown Crossing staple like sardines canned in Guinness. Short of crowd surfing to the loo, it looks like a lost cause. Our little plan would have required the cooperation and voluntary relocation of literally everyone in the place. We watched as our hopes for a subtle, smooth getaway were dashed against the rocks upon which our scotches had been served.
Later in the evening, after a half-hour one-way trip to the bathroom, we found it to be "cozy" in the European sense of the word - meaning that boys and girls share a small room and maneuver around the payphone for, we assumed, privacy. But for now, we needed a new plan of action.
We about-face. He's still there.
"Hey, that's a tiger shirt. You're a tiger!"
"It's a zebra."
"And a damn good looking one!"
"Ahem, bartender? Can we get a few more drinks over here?"
And speaking of drinks, the menu is as limited as the floor space. With only two taps (likely for logistical reasons), a few bottled beers, and a limited supply of hard liquor, you'd be hard pressed to find a Stoli Raspberry with Ginger Ale or a Cosmopolitan. In fact, the bartenders have to store the empty bottles in the window well, where they also stick their musical guests. But they've got what's important - Guinness on tap, whiskey and scotch, and local music. This pint-sized pub packs quite a punch for patrons with a penchant for serious personality. And all thirty of them (the space is licensed to hold 38 drinkers... told you it was pint-sized) are serious Irish pub regulars loyal to The Littlest Bar or aficionados who work the circuit.
Musicians who play in the window well are usually of the one-man-band variety - again, for spatial reasons - and are most often vocalists. On the particular night that your friends and mine, the "young innocents," came to town, the window well was empty (except for the empties, of course). But the bar was packed, and the crowd was lively. The nice thing about such a, shall we say, intimate venue, is that a small group of people feels like a huge get-together. Not even at an off-campus shin dig would thirty people justify the label "party." But, partly because of the location below ground level, partly because of the dark wood interior, and partly because of the regular characters, the personality at The Littlest Bar is one of the biggest in Boston... and personality makes the venue.
While it may not be the place to go with a group of people looking for a Saturday night with enough adventure to occupy your thoughts during a week-long stay in the library, The Littlest Bar is a unique Boston experience. It's more like the Bull and Finch Pub than the atmosphere on Cheers, and its overflowing with enthusiasm and energy. Perhaps because it's overflowing with people, who have been known to continue the party on the sidewalk, drinks in hand. It's a nice change from nearby places like The Purple Shamrock which seem to feign pub-ness, and it's important that a place like The Littlest Bar exists for literary folk and homesick expats. Whether or not it's a place for college kids remains to be seen. College alcoholics, perhaps, as the doors open at 8:30 a.m. Chances are that at that hour, you'd have no problem getting in the door.
