THE SQUEALING PIG

134 SMITH ST., MISSION HILL, BOSTON. 617.566.6651

By Jenna Scherer | Photo By Alison Klein

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Of all the things I thought I might encounter at the Squealing Pig, a Bostonian who's never heard of Whitey Bulger wasn't one of them. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Lolling in the mud pit of Mission Hill, the Pig is a cozy-yet-spacious refuge against the hellish March winds. A sprawling beer selection, rhapsodically good pub grub and down-to-earth clientele make this the perfect spot for a midweek sloshfest.

Drink 1: Chimay Rouge ($6). The variety of draft and bottled beers is a bit dizzying at first, but Maureen the bartender points me straight with an ever-classy Chimay Rouge. We hunker down at one of the Pig's no-fuss wooden booths. I find myself momentarily distracted by the ceiling, where hundreds of blue Christmas lights twinkle like drunken fairies. "Ass balls from hell!" one of my companions shrieks, and I know that the night is officially underway.

Drink 2: The guy at the next table is loving his Wolaver's Certified Organic Oatmeal Stout ($4.50), so I order one for myself. "No chemicals, man, no chemicals!" the guy's buddy exalts. I make a mental note to chat these two up further. I order a plate of Tuscan fries (also $4.50) for the table—the Pig's tasty frîtes topped with parmesan cheese and miraculous truffle oil. My friend the preschool teacher fears he's coming down with a late-winter illness. "Children," he mutters. "They're like diseases in overalls."

Drink 3: Endurance Pale Ale ($4.50). I was trying to play it cagey, but our waiter Dan says that the notebook I keep scratching on is a dead giveaway. I was never very good at cagey. He sets me up with a beer named for Ernest Shackleton's second-in-command; a sip makes me wonder if the secret to conquering the Antarctic lies in hops. The Endurance emboldens me to chat up a neighboring table. Dave, a curly-haired guy, tells me he's a regular here—he lives right down the street. "The Pig is sort of an obligation," he says. He's also a filmmaker. "But not a successful one?" I venture. "No. Not a successful one."

Drink 4: Aged Bourbon with a cherry (on the house). This one comes specially delivered from Dermot, the Squealing Pig's Irish owner. I asked him where the pub's name comes from. "I opened it during the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal," he tells me. "It's named for Linda Tripp." Cheers to that. My friends and I savor the Bourbon, and then it's time for the cherry—which has been stewing in booze for several months. I wonder if this is what the worm at the bottom of Mezcal bottles tastes like. No hallucinations so far.

Drink 5: Allagash White ($4.50). After the cherry, which was a shot in and of itself, I opt for something on the lighter side. I turn my attention back to my neighbors, who are deep in a discussion about jai alai. "You whip the ball with a giant scoop," Dave says, cutting the air with a swipe of his hand. He goes on to explain the sport's connection to Boston, having been a favorite pastime of Whitey Bulger's. "Who's Whitey Bulger?" his friend, who's lived in the Hub for two years, asks. "Dude," I say, shaking my head. "Dude."