Kwaz's Qype profile

Located right in the heart of the Asian/BU-student neighborhood, Our House is an established name recognizable to any who’ve stepped foot off the B Line in Allston. One of the few places in the area open until 2 am, the dimly-lit bar is the perfect setting for cheap beginnings and sloppy endings. Push your way past the inevitable crowd of employees/customers chain-smoking on the front steps, and descend into an underground cavern of connecting rooms, filled with worn couches, wooden tables, pinball machines and pool tables. Although Our House offers a wide selection of beers, liquors and wine, my go-to is the $2 bottle of Brubacker’s Beer - an excellent beverage to swill while playing Battleship (one amongst many board games available) or watching the Simpson’s (marathon viewings every Tuesday). Be forewarned - the drinks are cheap, and the waitresses are quick. You will be stumbling by the time you hit the streets, arms wrapped around your new best friend from Kansas who just offered you her extra Aero-Bed for the night. Our House is our house, and - like the hair-clogged tub in my bathroom and my lopsided front porch - I love it despite its horrifying shortcomings.

I tend to disagree with Elliot. I find Boston Common to be one of the dirtiest and most distracting places in Boston. Nothing unsettles me more than a brazen crackhead wandering through the park in a Boston College t-shirt and matching plaid pajama pants, a Camel Light dangling from her hand, screaming obscenities at her scrawny, equally junked-out male companion. I particularly dislike the confused face of the young five-year old trying to slurp his cherry Italian ice; I don’t think he’s ever heard the “f-ing c-word” bellowed so loudly before. But still - it could be worse. I gave the Common a go.

After I had enjoyed many a lovely lunch on the grass, a co-worker joined me one mid-afternoon break. I sprawled out on the grass with my sandwich from Lambert’s (excellent rolls, generous portions of meat, ALWAYS go ten minutes before noon on work weekdays to avoid the inevitable line of hungry business men), unwrapped my lunch in front of me - and my friend immediately made a face.

“You’re sitting down?” She pulled the blanket out from underneath her arm and spread it tenatively over the ground.

“Yeah, what’s the problem? The grass is dry,” I chuckled, assuming she was worried about the dewy mist that glazes the park every morning.

Carefully lowering herself onto her blanket, she tucked her legs in so no part of her body was a foot near the edges.

“It’s just that… the bums poop here.”

Awesome.

I’d spend a night at Central Park over Boston Common any day. At least there no one bothers you when you want to smoke a joint or have sex behind the bushes. And the bums are happier when they’re not being hassled off their benches. What’s not to love about that.

You will rarely meet an actual Londoner at O’Neil’s. Many of the pub frequenters hail from Manchester, Australia, Poland, France and especially the good old US of A. Never before has there been such a sweaty mass of American study abroad students than on Tuesday nights with the Lettuceheads, one of my favorite rock hits cover bands. I knew I had been going there too long when I saw the same boy I had made out with (“Tim Flinn” - he asked me to find him on Facebook after he dumped at the bus stop… yeah, easy enough) mackin on another American girl - five weeks later.

Other than the diverse amalgam of people, the drinks are fairly inexpensive, the bartenders make excellent Snakebites, and if you make it up to the 3rd floor - you’ll never want to go back.