Café D

711 CENTRE ST., JAMAICA PLAIN. 617.522.9500. CAFEDBOSTON.COM

By MELISSA JELTSEN | Photo By Alison Klein

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Despite living within a stone's throw of Café D for three years, I never made it in. The dark windows and thick front curtains hid whatever shenanigans took place inside. I never saw anyone go in or come out, and I assumed the place was a secret drinking society for the swanky-clothed, disposable income types. So I jumped at the chance to visit it on assignment, dragging along my never-leave-a-drink-unfinished friend Jeremy, to investigate just who was doing what on the other side of those curtains.

Drink 1: Limoncello ($9.50). We push through the door and head straight for the bar at the back of the restaurant. Patrick, our bartender, recommends the Limoncello as a popular martini. Pretty much everyone else here is mid-intimate dinner, sipping wine. The Limoncello is a cloudy yellow drink that makes my mouth pucker, and my eyes drift toward Jeremy's PBR. A couple sits down next to us at the bar and orders two sophisticated salads and a pasta dish to share. I order fish tacos.

Drink 2: PBR ($3). I take Jeremy's lead and order the tasteless but satisfying Allston standard to cleanse my mouth. Marissa, a pixyish bartender with sparkles on her face, calls Café D laid-back. "It's a mixture of JP locals, lesbians ..." she trails off. The couple next to us, Jeffrey and Christina, finish dinner and get to business with their bottle of Vietti Nebbiolo 2005 ($38). They assert their "regular" status, and the bartenders corroborate. "It's a good place to chill out, have some good wine on the DL," says Jeffrey. Christina asks how my tacos were, and I tell her I liked the radish. "Radish is an underrated thing," Jeffrey says wisely.

Drink 3: Espresso Martini ($9.50). I ask Patrick what drink would give me the most value for the price. "I'm not a businessman," he warns, but whips up the caffeine cocktail, carefully balancing three coffee beans on top of the drink. There are only 10 people left in the café, and some of them seem to know each other. Awkwardness sets in, and the pressure is on to finish five drinks without making the waitstaff hate us for keeping them late.

Drink 4: Zombie ($9.50). Picking the drink purely by name was a mistake. "It looks like Windex," remarks Jeremy, who promptly eats the maraschino cherry. My taste buds can't tolerate pineapple juice and blue Curaçao after the shot of coffee. Jeremy and I realize we have a Very Important Friend in common and start talking double-time.

Drink 5: Kir Royale ($7.50). To finish the night, I order an aperitif. Out of nowhere the owner of the place—Doug Organ—materializes. I suspect he has been watching us all evening from inside the kitchen. I look around; we are alone with him. He tells me his goal is to "capture the neighborhood," but even in my inebriated state I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean it literally. We are free to leave the bar when we please. Phew.