Things to Recommend in Boston
The T: best thing about living in a city is having mass, public transportation. I love seeing all different sorts of people taking the T: lots of teenagers in groups, either groups of boys posturing or group of guys and girls, boys still showing off. And the people walking to and from the station. Lots of beautiful women in this town, scarfed and wearing high boots over skinny jeans. Lots and lots and lots of Ipods, and lots of couples or friends sharing a set of earphones.
You just can't people watch when you're driving on the expressway.
Also, Zoe's off Porter Square: a little, hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. A small entryway and then three steps up to a small dining room. Nothing to drink but water. But a fantastic menu, and everyone in the place but us is Asian. Only chopsticks are brought to the table. You havw to ask if you want the knife or fork. We do not, and do quite fine. (I learned to hold chopsticks from my maternal grandmother: a German first-generation American who also did Japanese brush painting, made miniature doll furniture, sewed entire 40s era wardrobes for a beautiful series of larfer Madame Alexander dolls, and could do 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles.)
Our dinner: cold noodles with sesame vinagrette, vegetable dumplings, wok-roasted shrimp with pepper and salt, sauteed peapods and water chestnuts.
And lunch, grabbed at Moody's Falafel Palace off Central Square: another hole-in-the-wall with great food. Why can't the suburbs of Chicago do this? Falafel, a wonderfully lemony cucumber and tomato salad, pita bread, and a counter to sit at by the window where I could more people watching. Three young men at a table in the corner, having a very intense academic conversation, in the way of students in a college town.
You just can't people watch when you're driving on the expressway.
Also, Zoe's off Porter Square: a little, hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. A small entryway and then three steps up to a small dining room. Nothing to drink but water. But a fantastic menu, and everyone in the place but us is Asian. Only chopsticks are brought to the table. You havw to ask if you want the knife or fork. We do not, and do quite fine. (I learned to hold chopsticks from my maternal grandmother: a German first-generation American who also did Japanese brush painting, made miniature doll furniture, sewed entire 40s era wardrobes for a beautiful series of larfer Madame Alexander dolls, and could do 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles.)
Our dinner: cold noodles with sesame vinagrette, vegetable dumplings, wok-roasted shrimp with pepper and salt, sauteed peapods and water chestnuts.
And lunch, grabbed at Moody's Falafel Palace off Central Square: another hole-in-the-wall with great food. Why can't the suburbs of Chicago do this? Falafel, a wonderfully lemony cucumber and tomato salad, pita bread, and a counter to sit at by the window where I could more people watching. Three young men at a table in the corner, having a very intense academic conversation, in the way of students in a college town.
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