after My next adventure, I was on the verge of giving up entirely. With yet another friend in tow, I planned to hit three places in one night, with a drink at the first, tapas at the second, and dinner at the third. Fat chance. To avoid repeats of the no-fireplace fiasco, I called the Warren Tavern, in Charlestown, in advance. Open since George Washington was a soldier, it seemed sure to provide an authentic New England hearth — and the wary voice that answered my call assured me that, yes, there was indeed a fireplace.
However, as we discovered after squeezing through the teeming masses at the bar, having a fireplace and using it are two different things: a grate closed off the hearth completely, and a table was set flush against it. No dice. We trudged back to the car and headed to Taberna de Haro, in Brookline. We never even made it inside. As I peered through the storefront glass like the Little Match Girl, it was clear to me that there was no fire to be had, only a wee brick oven à la Bertucci’s. The mob standing in line for seats looked perfectly content, but we were still out in the cold.
Perhaps that’s why the Fireplace (1634 Beacon Street, Brookline, 617-975-1900), in Washington Square, was such a delight. The mother of all fireplace restaurants, it doesn’t have just one natural fire — it has two! On the lower level, a wall-size stone hearth was radiating heat, the logs smoldering red, when we arrived. Soon, the flames had risen and were flickering away, just as I’d hoped for. Upstairs, in the main dining room, the open kitchen reveals a wood fire that can only be described as roaring. Pity the line cooks standing close to this furnace, but it cheered me considerably after traipsing through two flame-free neighborhoods.
Comfort food, which is the tag that comes instinctively to mind when one opens the menu at the Fireplace, has gotten a dirty name of late (most notably from an essay by New York Times food critic William Grimes). That may be because serious cooks can make tender roast chicken and succulent pork chops in their sleep, so they quail at paying someone else to do it for them. But if you can’t whip up such nourishing fare, or simply don’t feel like putting in the effort, this place is a dream. Buttermilk-batter onion rings are crispy but not overpowered by the batter, so you can actually taste the sweetness of the onion; smoky short ribs are literally falling-off-the-bone tender. Desserts are not this kitchen’s forte, but we ate so much along the way, it hardly mattered.
And the Fireplace gets more than just the food right. When my friend and I arrived — an hour early for our reservation, and with my husband still to join us — we were greeted by the host, who then checked in with us from time to time to make sure we were enjoying ourselves, and who seated us the moment our party was complete. Our server was friendly and helpful, but not overeager or pushy. We left the Fireplace with only vague memories of our disappointment hours earlier.
After taking several days off — you really should fast after eating at the Fireplace — I found myself heading to Oleana (134 Hampshire Street, Cambridge, 617-661-0505) with my husband and two friends. It was the coldest night of the winter so far, with icy blasts of air smacking me around. I had called earlier for a reservation, thinking (wrongly) that it would be effortless since it was a post-holiday Sunday night. The hostess apologetically offered me a spot much later than we had hoped for; when I hemmed and hawed, she graciously said they could try to squeeze us in a half-hour earlier. I accepted the deal, but then we arrived 45 minutes early anyway, figuring we’d hog the bar until our table was ready.
The fire was gas, but charming, housed in a little cast-iron stove complete with a stovepipe. After ordering our drinks, we ensconced ourselves on the little African pillows in the nook alongside the fireplace. The hostess mistook us for a party that had been waiting too long for their table and insisted on paying our bar tab; when we admitted we had only been waiting a few minutes (and were early besides), she graciously kept the tab anyway. Despite reported gripes about service when Oleana first opened, we were greeted well at every turn, from the bartender who earnestly inquired whether my husband liked his port with mint and grapes (he did), to the waitress who seated us early after all.
But the food is the shining star. I’d never eaten at Oleana because my husband isn’t a big fan of Mediterranean food and outright dislikes North African cuisine — two influences heavily at work here. No matter: he was as delighted as the rest of us by the subtle flavors and intriguing pairings that made every dish successful. The menu — featuring such treats as squash kibbeh on a pear-zucchini salad, spicy mussels, flattened spiced chicken, pork cassoulet, even deviled eggs (with tuna!) — is diverse without screaming fusion, and every item was a discovery, prompting discussion and much food-sharing. This was what I had imagined in my quest: a fireplace in view of every table in the room, a real sense of welcome from the staff, and memorable food.
This WONDERFUL evening made the last stop on my search all the more disappointing. I invited yet another friend to join me for lunch downtown on a windy day — only to discover that most of the remaining restaurants with fires don’t serve lunch. We ended up at Vox Populi (755 Boylston Street, Boston, 617-424-8300), which received a nod from Food & Wine when it opened a few years ago. I can’t imagine what occasioned that, as our food was fairly disastrous: a lumpy pumpkin risotto, along with a pan cubano that the kitchen sent out with fries instead of the promised plantain chips, with no mention or apology for the substitution.
Still, since I know the restaurant is popular at night with a certain upscale, post-work crowd, I was determined to enjoy its (gas) fireplace — which was not turned on. The chilly hostess had no interest in seating us near enough even to see what it looked like, until I plaintively admitted I was writing this article about fireplaces and needed to at least be able to look at it. Suddenly, I was someone — for the press, she would be happy to turn it on and seat us directly across from it in a comfy booth. I suppose if you’re going out for drinks at night and aren’t too critical, that booth is the spot for you: plush and cozy, with a perfect view of the flames. It’s the ideal place to enjoy a facsimile of the good life — a fake fire, false cheer from the staff, and something meant to mimic food.
Now that my quest has come to an end, of course, I keep hearing rumors about the fires that got away (see "Hot Tips," this page), and I may just have to rouse myself to go check them out. But for now, I will stoke only the fires of recent memory — the smoke-scented air of the Fireplace, the complex flavors at Oleana — and stay out of the cold entirely.
David Valdes Greenwood is half Cuban, and as such, winter holds no appeal for him. He may be reached indoors at valdesgreenwood@worldnet.att.net
