There’s something about being on the T that makes you emerge after a long day ready for a cold beer.
Or say, a hundred cold beers.
Usually, this comes up when exiting the red line in Kendall Square...
Which brings us to Meadhall, a new post-work refuge for draft beer, housemade pork rinds and other reimagined pub fare, tentatively opening tomorrow in Cambridge.
So picture it: you’re absorbing the energy of high technology and learning that permeates the breeze around Kendall Square. Then, as it often does, your stomach begins crying out: “Find me the closest 200-plus-seat, two-floor Xanadu for housemade bratwurst and cold bottles of monk-brewed Trappist ale.”
When that happens, just go here. Over drafts of Ipswich-brewed Notch Ale or a few Belgian Delirium Tremens, you’ll settle into a seat at the huge cherrywood bar and crack a book under the old-timey librarian lamps (don’t worry if it’s Infinite Jest; they have over 100 non-repeating taps).
Then, you and that sexy lab director pondering existence over a tattered copy of Heidegger’s Being and Time will lock eyes and move to a leathery booth in the back. That’s where you’ll discuss how Sartre got it wrong over plates of Wild Maryland Striped Bass, or just a platter of charcuterie with a mound of their from-scratch fried pork rinds.
Mmm, pork rinds.
Or say, a hundred cold beers.
Usually, this comes up when exiting the red line in Kendall Square...
Which brings us to Meadhall, a new post-work refuge for draft beer, housemade pork rinds and other reimagined pub fare, tentatively opening tomorrow in Cambridge.
So picture it: you’re absorbing the energy of high technology and learning that permeates the breeze around Kendall Square. Then, as it often does, your stomach begins crying out: “Find me the closest 200-plus-seat, two-floor Xanadu for housemade bratwurst and cold bottles of monk-brewed Trappist ale.”
When that happens, just go here. Over drafts of Ipswich-brewed Notch Ale or a few Belgian Delirium Tremens, you’ll settle into a seat at the huge cherrywood bar and crack a book under the old-timey librarian lamps (don’t worry if it’s Infinite Jest; they have over 100 non-repeating taps).
Then, you and that sexy lab director pondering existence over a tattered copy of Heidegger’s Being and Time will lock eyes and move to a leathery booth in the back. That’s where you’ll discuss how Sartre got it wrong over plates of Wild Maryland Striped Bass, or just a platter of charcuterie with a mound of their from-scratch fried pork rinds.
Mmm, pork rinds.
