Long stations for short trolleys

I wonder why the Green Line stations along Huntington Avenue are so long?  Was there really a time when three- and four-car trolleys plied between Lechmere and Forest Hills?  The underground stations have as much length so this systemic design must be for a reason.

The Red and Orange Line platforms are a perfect fit for their trains.  I haven't been on the Blue for awhile, but I assume they are likewise.  If I recall, Aquarium is very long, but they just bought some new Blue Line trains so the new models may fit now.

A two-car train is slow going down Huntington and South Huntington Streets as it is.  I can only imagine the effects on traffic of a four-car model going through Jamaica Plain.  Not that it wouldn't be good.  I'd visit JP more often.

Thanks to Dr. Hermes for today's illustration.

Dorchester robbery

There wasn't any need to contact the Dorchester Crime Unit at District C-11 HQ, but while we were away last week a thief broke into a certain Savin Hill apartment. Losses were negligible, maybe sixty cents, but the circumstances are confounding enough for commentary.


Though a large Vietnamese contingent has settled in this section of Dorchester, the neighborhood has deep Irish-American roots. The local restaurants and the smells wafting out of neighborhood kitchens confirms this. The cuisine tends to shy away from sharp flavors. Spice racks are typically stocked with iodized salt and factory-ground black pepper. Maureen Shea once told me that freshly ground pepper is too spicy and she never understood how people could eat it. "It's something fancy they do in the Back Bay and that's why I never eat out there," she said. Aside from these two staples, there is usually also a jar of caraway seeds to knock the winds out of boiled cabbage. Garlic? That's something the Eye-talians in the North End and Eastie eat, but not real Dorchesterites.


Before we went on vacation last week, we dutifully ate all the leftovers, leaving the cupboard bare until our return. One thing that was left, however, were two heads of garlic that rested in a dish on the counter. These heads of garlic were the target of the thievery that took place in our absence.


Despite the long-established, cartoon paradigm, mice don't really crave cheese. In fact, if you are setting traps, most people recommend using peanut butter as bait, though I've often heard gum drops are equally effective. To my knowledge, no one has ever recommended putting a garlic clove in a mousetrap, but it seems that one mouse has developed a taste for this cornerstone of Mediterranean cooking. Over the course of eight days a mouse devoured two heads of garlic leaving only the empty, papery skins.


How do we know it was a mouse and not some other intruder? I don't need to be a part-time private eye to crack this case and finger the perp. There were garlicky mouse droppings all around the scene of the crime. The problem is, this has to be an out-of-town job. What self-respecting Dot mouse would develop a taste for garlic? The answer is that it's not possible. Two theories:

1. Knowing we would be out of town, a certain mus musculus hopped the Blue Line out of Orient Heights and after several transfers on the MBTA, made his way to JFK/UMASS station for a garlic binge. He or she was sloppy about leaving evidence but hotfooted it back to home base before we returned to catch him red-handed with full cheeks.

2. A North End rodent tired of Haymarket scraps hopped the Orange Line and transferred to the Red at Downtown Crossing.

The only other alternative, Dot-on-Dot crime, is unthinkable. Needing some garlic for the first home-cooked meal in a week, I resigned myself, as a victim, to stop by the Shaw's at Harbor Point to restock my garlic supply. A regretful end to a perfect vacation, but, really, I needed to do some grocery shopping anyway.

Royal Roast Beef

One thing that you can do at Royal Roast Beef, at 752 Bennington Street in East Boston, is sit inside during a snow storm. We were at our favorite beef joint on the afternoon of New Year's Eve with the snow swirling outside and enjoying two #2 meals, snug and contented.

You can't do that at Kelly's in Revere.

We overheard a gentleman on his phone, "Hi...I just got my haircut and I'm at Royal....Royal...You know, Royal Roast Beef in Orient Heights, by Burger King and Dunkin' Donuts [some landmarks! ed.]...It's snowing and I'm hungry....I like the chicken fingers here."

While everything on the menu is good and, as the sign says, Royal does offer more than famous roast beef, we were somewhat taken aback by what we overheard. Not wanting to show we had been eavesdropping, we didn't interrupt this gentleman's meal with probing questions. Someone else at an adjoining table was eating a plate overflowing with deep-fried jumbo shrimp. To each his own. Being traditionalists, my companion and I stuck to the beef sandwiches that are worth any Blue Line excursion.

Having finished our meal at 12:24 PM, we crossed Bennington Street to enjoy the snow drifts and direct assault of seaborne, icy wind at Constitution Beach. It was nice to get on board a heated Blue Line train at Orient Heights to ride back to Dorchester (after a few transfers), full as ticks and warm as bugs in a rug.



Postscript: Just as GM and Chrysler will undoubtably finish thier restructuring on time and under budget, Whalehead King did likewise this week. We thank our readers for thier patience and wish everyone the best of fortune this New Year. Now back to our usual shennanigans. Welcome back and enjoy.

Jungle love

With a blanket of snow over Dorchester, we were surprised to hear the soothing sounds of exotic tiki music wafting out of an open, third story window on Sagamore Street. The ukulele strains were so hypnotic, a gaggle of Dorchesterites had stopped in the middle of the middle of the street with ears cocked upward. Nobody was doing a lot of driving today but the streets were thick with pedestrians heading though the snow flakes for milk, malt liquor, bagged snack food and pizza made to order.

A young man sporting a frizzled beard was one of the people stopped on Sagamore Street listening to the music that issued out of this apartment. He said, "I feel like I'm in Hawaii." He said it spontaneously to no one in particular and he was quickly hit with a snowball by a companion who said, "I couldn't do this in Hawaii, buster." The whole group guffawed and scooped snowballs from around their feet and started pelting the guy who exaggerated the situation too much.

It didn't feel like Hawaii in Dorchester or any other part of Boston today. It felt like New England in winter, the worst time to live here. Despite that, it did feel care-free. There is something about a snow storm that makes everyone congenial. We are all in this together. The inconvenience of not being able to travel as far as you choose forges a bond with other people in the street, in the stores, in the pizza parlors...we just want to get out a bit and see that the world is getting on. It's nice to be alive in a winter wonderland. Boston, Dorchester, Roxbury, Eastie, Charlestown, Chelsea, Southie, the Back Bay, the South End, West Roxbury, they are all pretty places but they become even prettier under a blanket of snow.

One of the women who stopped on Sagamore Street, she was 60 years old if she was a day, said, "This music puts me in mind for the beach." She looked at her squire and said, "Why don't we take the Blue Line to Revere and walk the beach?" He said he would load his ipod with tiki music as soon as they got home and then they would be off like a shot for Kelly's Roast Beef and a stroll along the picturesque shores of exotic Massachusetts Bay.

Dorchester breeds daydreams along its shortest streets.

A Fighting Proposition

So, I'm standing around in front of the counter at Royal Roast Beef, you know the place; it's got the big sign at 752 Bennington Street in East Boston. You get off the Blue Line at Orient Heights, cross the tracks, turn left and walk about three blocks. It's just across from Constitution Beach. I'm cooling my heels with a few bricklayers, two cops, a priest from the Madonna Shrine up the hill, and a gaggle of teenagers happy that school's out for Columbus Day. We're all having lunch. The ladies and gentlemen behind the counter are taking orders, frying potatoes and slicing beef like they were born to do it. They also prepare occasional seafood plates, clam rolls, hot and cold subs, and the like with equal aplomb.

I turn to one of the bricklayers and ask as nonchalantly as possible, "So, uh, what do you think about Kelly's?" I am, or course, referring to the flagship Kelly's Roast Beef at 410 Revere Beach Blvd. in Revere, not the satellites in Saugus, Natick, Danvers or Medford.

The bricklayer goes out the front door and spits into an empty parking space. When he steps back inside he says, "Don't say that name to me. If I weren't smelling that Royal roast beef right now, I would lose my appetite."

One of the ladies behind the counter corrects me, "Don't you be starting trouble in here, mister. There's nothing wrong with Kelly's but we don't like to mention the competition within these walls. It gets the customer's agitated."

One of the other bricklayers eyes me suspiciously and asks, "You're not a Kelly's man, are you?" I assure him I am not. Though I like to take the Blue Line, I prefer to get off at Orient Heights rather than ride to the end of line for my roast beef. "That's good," he says.

One of the teenagers pipes up. She says, "Kelly's that's a f***ing gyp! They charge $5.75 for a small and $6.75 for a large. Know where that extra dollar goes? Right to their fancy website!" Her companions darkly mutter in agreement. One of them cracks his knuckles as he glares at me.

The counter lady says to me, "See what you've done? Everyone is welcome here. Kelly's is okay. They've got the best roast beef sandwich at Revere Beach. We don't have any beef with them here. We've got the best sandwich at Constitution Beach." As she says this an airplane screams overhead having just taken off from Logan nearby.

The priest interjects, "Revere isn't Boston. Let's just be thankful Royal is here, where we live." He winks at me. "It is the better sandwich," he gently admonishes.

For the record, a small sandwich at Royal (Junior) costs $3.25. A regular is $3.99. A large (Super, served on an onion roll) is $4.99. The sandwiches come in three sizes for any appetite and Royal Roast Beef does not have a web site.

The two cops got their orders first. They sat in the corner booth and each devoured a Super with relish.

The Crown Prince of Eastie

The Prince Regeant of Boston's neighborhoods has always been East Boston. This most northerly part of the city is more familiarly known as 'Eastie.' It's a laid back kind of place, the kind of place that knows its reputation and its power and this neighborhood is comfortable with both.

An East Boston icon is Royal Roast Beef, a sandwich shop located on Bennington Street across from Constitution Beach. The illuminated sign outside Royal Roast Beef says it all. It depicts a charicature of what may as well be considered "Mr. East Boston." Is this crown prince/clown prince kissing his sandwich or sucking a thin slice or rare beef out from between the bun? Maybe a little bit of both. You'll try to do both too when you get one of these sandwiches between your mitts.

Mr. East Boston shows his appreciation for well roasted beef with a signature gesture. He makes the 'okay' sign with his right hand behind his back and he presses his forefinger and thumb together so tightly that they emit sparks! That's good beef, buddy! Delivery available.

Resistence is Futile

We are sure that in as geek-heavy a city as Boston this observation has been made before but this is an acromymn that bears repeating. The Borg are a race of sentient machines that devour organic life in thier path for thier own, group-think purposes in the Star Trek mythos (the Next Generation). The letters arrange quite nicely if a Bostonian travels from Wonderland to State Street to Downtown Crossing to Park Street Station for a trip out to Riverside.

Blue-Orange-Red-Green. B-O-R-G.

Of course life lived pressed close to the flesh on the MBTA is more free and lively than that conjectured in sci-fi telenovelas. Isn't it Charlie? If there can be a Silver Line, can there be more than one Borg?

Pickpocket

We were sitting on a bench across from Cheer's Cafe in Quincy Market. Our companion was a professional pickpocket. Citing journalistic privelege, we will not reveal his identifying characteristics here. He is well known by the constabulary though they have thus far been unable to pin any wrongdoing to his person or reputation. As a source of solid information originating between the Aquarium and Government Center, we would prefer he stay out from behind bars. Regular Bostonians need not worry. His quarry is out-of-towners who don't know how to protect thier wallets.

Unable to reveal our companion's true identity, we will call him Sly Eye for the duration of this report.

Sly Eye turned to your reporter. Both were smoking White Owl brand, grape flavored cigars provided by the scofflaw. Sly Eye asked, apropos of nothing but the surroundings, "Have you ever wondered how much Fanieul Hall weighs?" We had to admit we haven't.

He said, "Look around at these plump tourists. They're fatter than all the pidgeons put together but, unlike the pidgeons, they have something I want. Pidgeons have fleas and mites. Tourists have coin and bills." Sly Eye smacked his lips enjoying the cigar's grape flavor and blew a smoke ring. He said, "All the money in these tourists' pockets weighs more than Fanieul Hall and the Center Market building put together."

Sly Eye makes his living fleecing the inattentive. As he was blowing another smoke ring a beat cop passed our bench. The pickpocket said, "Hello, Chauncy. It's a busy day for a gloomy November."

Chauncy said, "It's a bright day for you if I know you. Just keep it low-key, if you please."

Chauncy looked at your humble reporter, ""You're not following him into the trade are you?"

We protested, perhaps a bit much. "No, no," we exclaimed, "We are just here for the news that is fit to print."

"Get along then," Chauncy said. "You don't want to alarm the tourist traffic."

"Indeed not," replied Sly Eye, and with that he and I parted company to enjoy our cigars on opposite sides of the Sam Adams statue.

Manicures on the T

My nails need a little trimming so I thought I would blend in with the crowd and bring some clippers onto the T. I thought better of it in the end, but I got to wondering: what makes this act of personal hygiene so attractive to perform on the train? I see people clipping thier nails on the T all the time.

The Red Line is a popular line on which to perform this task, but the Blue and Orange lines seem equally inviting. I see less of this behavior on Green Lines trolleys, but once the streetcars get underground, the stainless steel clippers come out. Do dark windows make closet nail clippers come into the light? The Silver Line is the only branch of the MBTA that doesn't seem to tempt this urge to nip cuticles or cut off excess keratin. No one straphangs with a hangnail in Boston.

I live in Dorchester, and when I disembark at JFK/UMASS station I walk past plenty of front porches where people are clipping thier nails, letting the shards fly where they may onto the sidewalk. On front porches people clip thier toenails too, something I haven't yet witnessed on the T. Maybe I don't ride often enough.