The Smoldering Bear

When I finally stopped at Marliave in Downtown Crossing last Friday, I couldn't believe I'd let a place with so much character escape my notice for so long. It all started because a friend and I were looking for someplace quiet and cozy for an after-work drink on a rainy evening. "What's the opposite of the Barking Crab?" she asked, naming our summertime standby. "I don't know," I said. "The Smoldering Bear?" That sounded...warm.

We knew the usual places nearby would be crowded with office folks. But as we headed toward Silvertone on Bromfield St, ready to elbow our way to the bar, I suddenly remembered Marliave at #10 Bosworth. Inside, it was quiet and dark. The hostess led us upstairs past vintage textured walls to the second floor bar, which was nearly empty and lit with candles. I noticed a huge antique mirror hanging on one wall and other vintage touches to remind us we were entering a restaurant that first opened in 1885--and survived Prohibition as a speakeasy.

It's been about a year now since Chef Scott Herritt of Grotto in Beacon Hill restored and re-opened Marliave, named for the original French owner. As we settled in at the bar, my friend and I were charmed by both the cocktail menu (with drinks named for Ulysses S. Grant, Papa Hemingway, and others) and the sweet bartender, Dara. She poured me a "Yellow Journalism"--made with Clear Creek pear eau-de-vie, the citrus-vanilla flavored Licor 43, prosecco, and lemon--while a server schooled us on the competition between newspaper moguls Pulitzer and Hearst that produced the scourge of yellow journalism.

As time passed, a handful of others joined us at the bar, and diners began to occupy some tables in the formal dining room overlooking Province Street. Though I hadn't planned to eat, I was pleased enough with the experience so far to order the scrambled eggs with black truffle and toast ($12). The cheesy eggs came in a soup terrine with a few shavings of black truffle on top, accompanied by a bowl of baby potatoes in rich herbed butter sauce, and four pieces of French bread toast. It was exactly what I felt like eating on a cold, wet night.

Those truffled eggs, plus the warm, quiet atmosphere around the bar and the utter lack of pretension in service, made us grateful we'd stumbled in. "This place is a gem," my friend said. "If you write about it, just call it 'The Smoldering Bear.'"

And while I agree that it'd be a shame if Marliave lost its hidden-treasure charm, and finding a seat at the bar became the bloodsport that it is at so many other downtown locales--now that I've found it, I'd like to see this 120 year-old relic stay in business.

Thanks to -sarma- on Flickr for the lovely photo.