We Came, We Saw, We Drank

"Are you married? I have a cubic zirconia," said the drunk college student as he stumbled towards us.

We had hit Harvard Square hard that Friday night. Although we had been drinking together for three years, never before had our age matched our i.d.s. This night was our opportunity to barhop, courtesy of The Crimson.

At 10 p.m., we arrived at Pizzeria Uno's Sunflower Cafe (22 JFK St.), with its relatively mellow, boring atmosphere. We had often stuffed our faces with pizza upstairs, but we had never ventured into the depths of the building, because we knew the bar there carded. But tonight, with legal driver's licenses in hand, we went downstairs.

We walked past the dark wood bar and saw an empty table next to a sailor and his date. We couldn't resist. Madonna's "Lucky Star" played in the background, interrupted periodically by annoying calls of "John Smith, party of three."

The waiter came promptly, and we ordered two Bud Lites--no sense in getting blitzed right off. She carded us, and we proudly handed over our i.d.s. Although the beers cost $3 each, the portions were ample.

College students, mostly from elsewhere in the Boston area, were seated at both low and high tables on genuine imitation leather chairs. Brooke stared at the electronic message board, reading the red letters streaming across it. "Tyson accuses Givens of faking a pregnancy to lure him into marriage."

When Madonna's "Lucky Star" came on for the second time in 20 minutes, we stood up to leave.

On to the Wursthaus (4 JFK St.), or as the sign to the upstairs bar read, Zum Goldenen Lowen. We sat talking at our low wood table in the front room for about 15 minutes before realizing that there was no waiter. Julie approached the bar, which was surrounded by tall men and lined with dozens of ceramic steins and college pennants.

The Wursthaus offers upwards of 100 kinds of beer--prices vary--but it was out of our first three choices, Corona, Bud and Miller. We tried two German beers we had never tasted before and cringed at their bitterness.

True to its name, the Wursthaus was Germanic in its decorations--carved horses and shields and barrels and dark wood. It seemed as if everything around us was made of wood, except, of course, for the plastic grapes hanging from the shelves.

Since the television in the corner was off, and there was no music, we eavesdropped on the couple sitting next to us. He bragged about his natural talent for speaking Japanese, and she played with her waist-long ponytails.

The Wursthaus was definitely not a pick-up place. Most of the patrons sat in pairs, clearly couples or buddies. In fact, two overdressed women in pearls walked out, looking disgruntled.

Strolling, not quite swaying, we made our way down JFK to the Sports Bar (the Galleria, JFK St.). A line of very cold students--all of them male--had formed outside the Square's newest bar, but the attractive bouncer from Tufts let the two of us in quite quickly. Although packed to capacity, a mirrored wall and glass partitions made the bar seem spacious. Several televisions blared different sporting events.

College-age students stood and drank in the front room. Management removes the stools on the weekends, anticipating crowds. In the second room, behind a glass wall, students sat at tables or mingled in small groups. Posters of Boston heroes-Larry Bird, Tony Eason and assorted Bruins--lined the walls.

Three feet into the first room, a man approached us. "Are you reporters? I work for a newspaper too," he said, eyeing our notebooks.

"No, I work for the CIA," Julie replied. Chastised, he scurried off.

Weaving through Patagonia jackets and turtlenecks, we squeezed through the 15-person-deep ring around the bar. Domestic beer is $2.25 and served in plastic cups, at least on crowded Friday nights.

Men's eyes moved vertically, and their mouths shouted "Woman!" and "How ya doin'?" Brooke's friend Dave, who said he frequents the Sports Bar to all of his old Belmont Hill buddies, explained that most of the women in the bar were not Harvard types. "Pine Manor," he said, pointing to a nearby table in the second room.

Two more men fixated on our notebooks, so we asked them about the bar scene. Both Harvard seniors, they sang the same old song.

"There's so many guys and not enough girls," one said. But they said they continue to come here every weekend. Hoping.

We considered a trip to the ladies' room, but the line out the door changed our minds. So we left.

Crossing the street on our way to the next bar, we ran into Chris and Pablo hanging out around a parking meter. We stopped to chat, uncertain whether to take a place at the end of the long line outside the Boathouse (56 JFK St.). But, upon seeing our friend Ken already in line, we cut in midway. No one grumbled.

Chris and Pablo took off, and we made new friends in line. The junior standing behind us took out his i.d. It read, "12/10/65."

Just as we reached the head of the line, Dan, John and Eric showed up. They joined us. No one grumbled.

The bouncer, a Kirkland House rugby player, checked our i.d.s and waved us down the cement staircase to the basement bar.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me." As Aretha got down, so did we--to more drinking. We ordered two more beers at $2 apiece. When we asked for a receipt (hey, this was on the expense account, you know), the bartender asked why.

"We work for the CIA."

"That wouldn't be the first time they were in here," he quipped.

Eric leaned over and told us not to be flattered. "The bartender flirts with everyone," he said.

As we sipped our Millers, we eyed the tie, oxford and bomber jacket crowd. They stood in big groups--they had no choice, there were only three tables. Their heads nearly brushed the oars that hung on the low ceiling. Waiters clad in black mini--very mini--dresses fought through the mostly male crowd to take drink orders. The video game in the corner had been turned way down so its noises would not interfere with the classic hits.

We finished our beers and agreed to hit the next bar. Our feet stuck to the floor as we tried to leave. Eric, surrounded by four women, decided he'd stay for another drink.

Ready for a change of scenery, four of us trooped over to Casablanca (40 Brattle St.). Beneath the Brattle Theater, down the hall from Cafe Algiers, Casa B's and the Boathouse are about as similar as creme de menthe and Bud.

We vultured for a postage stamp-sized table. The ceiling fans slowly swirled the smoky air. Older patrons found the red haze of light flattering to their companions' looks. The couple kissing in the wicker booth in the corner was hard to make out.

Enough of beer. This ambience, dignified by brick walls and red tablecloths, called for something with class. Tequila and orange juice ($3) for Julie. A screwdriver ($3) for Brooke. Less adventurous, John and Dan stuck to beer ($2.50).

Soft music played from the jukebox. Couples leaned in close, trying to hear each other over loud voices. Bogey's visage kept watch from posters around the room.

The tequila went to Julie's head. Her end of the dialogue degenerated to tall and short personalities. The handwriting in her notebook grew increasingly illegible. She declared she was not a teetotattler. Her companions agreed.

Although it was getting late, we weren't quite ready to call it a night. The Kong beckoned.

As we exited through Casa B's swinging doors, we met up with Chris and Pablo, who were still wandering. They declined our invitation to the Kong, saying they wanted a man's night out.

On the walk across the Square to the Hong Kong (1236 Mass. Ave.), our conversation turned to meaningful topics. We asked the Big Question.

"What's in a Scorpion Bowl?"

Once through the Kong's red doors, we decided to stay downstairs. We were hungry, so the two of us and John ordered a Bowl ($9.75), and Dan ordered a beer (prices range $2.25-$2.75). The waiter called over the manager, who carded us. We also ordered Peking ravioli, dun-dun noodles and sweet-and-sour chicken (food's expensive).

A ceramic bowl, spouting 18-inch straws, arrived. We peered at the pinkish liquid and wondered at its mysteries.

"I don't drink," said John, ferociously grabbing a straw with his teeth.

As we fought with our ravioli--Brooke considered and rejected the thought of asking for chopsticks--we admired the tassels hanging from the chandeliers and the many garish "Oriental" carvings. Laurie, completely smashed from three Bowls shared by as many women, floated by.

Since there was no music, we couldn't escape the drunken laughter of the women in large hoop earrings and permed hair sitting a few tables over.

After draining our Scorpion Bowl, we spotted some friends.

"Are you drunk?" we asked.

"Not yet."

Walking home down Arrow St., we saw a peculiar vision. A man with 25 white straws stuck in his dark curly hair grabbed hold of Julie and tried to kiss her. She broke away as the kiss landed on her jawbone.

His companion called after us. "Do you wanta go to a pahty?"