Stream of Consciousness Saturday – 9/20/2025

The Sevens?

We called the group crash house “The Folkie Palace”. It was a third-floor one-bedroom apartment on Boston’s Grove Street. In those days, it was a sort of working-class neighborhood. There were workers from the nearby hospitals, refugees from the urban renewal in Boston’s West End, and folkies. Folkies like me and my friends. It was the place to go on a Friday night. Blowout parties were going on all over the street if you were the blowout party type. And I was.

At some point in each evening, someone would suggest visiting the Harvard Gardens. The Garden was our regular watering hole at the foot of Grove Street. Off we’d troop, all of the regulars: The Teahead, Captain Zero, the Monk, Mike the Vike, the Canary (also a Mike), and Wes (me). Periodically, our group was banned for various ill-advised behaviors, gags, and general stupidities. We’d disappear for several weeks, and gradually reinfiltrate one by one until the entire group could, once again, be located in the back at three tables pulled together and loaded with empties.

Effects of Being Banned!

But when the group was banned, they would party at home. One night, A couple visiting our apartment invited me out to another local bar called the Sevens. The Seven was another old-time Beacon Hill neighborhood bar. Its walls were hung with artwork by a local artist named Omar, and the vibe was different than the Garden’s. It had a slightly more intellectual vibe, attracted a better-educated group, and wasn’t as rowdy. What it lacked were the fixed-in-place characters at the bar, like Joe English.

Now, no one ever knew if Joe English was actually his name. We were reasonably sure that he was actually English, though. He’d sit on his stool and pontificate on any subject. Periodically, we’d ask him to our table and ply him with drink and pepper him with questions. His brusque take on things concealed, but did not hide a well-educated background. He was brusque, a bit rude, but almost never profane.

One night, after a period of banishment ended, we asked him his opinion on other neighborhood bars. He complained vigorously about the callous service at the Top Hat, and scoffed at the assortment of scotch and whiskey at Sporters. Then I asked him about the Sevens. I had just spent the banishment at the Sevens and was interested in his opinion. Joe turned to me and, in scoffing terms, doubted my abilities to discern quality in a drinking establishment. He went on to describe the establishment’s lack of quality, the poor artwork, and the poor service.

Time Marches On

Years went by, and the Folkie Palace dissolved. I traveled for several years. And when I finally returned to Boston, it was to a small place of my own. I now tended to visit a different series of coffeehouses and bars. Without my friends, the Harvard Gardens no longer held too much appeal. Lunch times were spent at Charles Street Coffeehouses. During the evenings, I’d drift once in a while to the Sevens. Eventually, I drifted away from the old neighborhood.

The last time I visited was in the nineties. The neighborhood was rapidly gentrifying. But both bars were still there. Just out of old time’s sake, I passed through the doors of the Harvard Gardens. The old, worn wooden benches and tables were gone. Everything was upscale. But still perched on a stool at the bar was now wizened Joe English. The sole remaining vestige of what had once been.