Boston’s had been recommended to us Shire officers Noni and Cary. We decided to do an early dinner there for our last day.
We noticed on arriving that there appeared to be a lot more cars than people.
The inside was well fit out, and there was a refreshingly casual, smart, energised, feel about the place. The kitchen was to one side and the bar opposite.
To the food: I’ll start by saying there’s a lot of good things to be said about gingers.
Beers, I mean.
This one, Boston’s 3.5% alcoholic stunner, was no different.
Words you’d use to describe the girl next door could have described this ginger to the T – nice, sweet, pleasant, and absolutely beautiful. And yes, I’d make the comparison the other way in a heartbeat. Well, actually, no, if we’re talking ginger beers, I wouldn’t liken people to ginger beers.
It had a good amount of carbonation, and micro-bubbles that kept the flavour popping.
With each gulp of gingery goodness, I was tortured by the idea that somewhere in a parallel universe it’d be a hot summer’s day and I’d be kicking back on the beach sipping a cold ginger beer and drifting off while watching dreamy, candy blue skies above and their walking equivalents. Maybe with a few glasses more at the Brewery I’d have had the capacity to break the laws of space and time and transport myself to this imagined reality. Having to wake up the next day was such a dream killer.
We went splitsies with the pizzas, and ordered one each of the Italian and the seafood.
The Italian was difficult to top, unless you were standing there with the ingredients ready to go on the pizza base. The Italian, a thin crust pizza with stringy mozarella cheese, adequate tomato sauce, olives, and bits of beef, was fantastic and it screamed flavour. The seafood pizza also screamed flavour, loud enough to have my ears ringing more than my phone does. In other words, not very loud. It was a much less cheesy offering, with vegetables, and a relatively light handed scatter of prawns. The seafood pizza had a cleaner feel to it. Though if you’re eating a pub pizza or two, chances are that a ‘clean meal’ isn’t high on the priority list. After finding my list when I returned to civilisation (as it happens, suffocating under a stack of Hungry Jacks whopper wrappers I’d been meaning to dispose of), I can confirm unequivocally that ‘clean meal’ was not in fact on mine, at least.
The pizzas were filling. I decided to test if could stomach further deliciousness by ordering dessert.
I went for the lemon tart with summer fruit. I’d envisioned a standard pastry filled tart and some fruits: this was better. Inside the shiny yellow lemon covering was a firm creamcheese-like block atop a thin biscuit base. The lemon element provided no acidity. Muchneeded tartness to cut through the creaminess, and in some way, the heaviness of the mains we’d had, was entirely a product of the raspberry sorbet. A frozen quenelle of the stuff was at the halfway mark of a complete meltdown when we got to it. Red tears were streaking the plate at this point. Despite the drama, it was the clear winner of the best thing on the dessert-plate-in-question award: a highly prestigious award that, by its very nature, is only ever awarded once.
Apart from the secondhand embarrassment I suffered from the lemon element’s loss to the raspberry sorbet – on a dish titled ‘lemon tart’ no less – the overwhelming feeling I had as we came to the conclusion of this dish, and our last supper in Denmark, was that of being in a food coma.
Nothing that a hot cuppa and ten hours of running at the gym won’t fix.
Taste verdict Delicious and surprising. A high highly recommended.