It was the kind of experience I travel for. Each dish, artfully composed, was better than the last. The togarashi-spiced salmon crudo. The chimichurri octopus. The whole roasted fish.
Boston's Select Oyster Bar had been around for a couple of years, but for me it was all new. And yet, everything was familiar. I'd worn out shoes on the rain-soaked streets outside the brownstone's floor-to-ceiling windows. And the executive chef/owner coming out of the kitchen to check on my meal? He was an old friend of mine.
After a few years away, I was playing tourist in the city where I came of age before moving to Minneapolis. There were new restaurants. New neighborhoods (SoWa is a term we're using now?). Cambridge, with a cascade of interesting eating options like Little Donkey — a global tapas emporium — appeared to be a new hub. And the Seaport area, with only a whisper of a "scene" when I left town, was now jammed with high-rise hotels and bars. Crisscrossing the city without needing the aid of an iPhone map, I discovered new lunch nooks, outdoor markets and boutiques.
There was plenty to explore. But it was also still my city.
After landing, I headed to Neptune Oyster, bellying up to the cold marble bar where I poured chenin blanc and helped sling icy trays of bivalves for a few years in my early 20s.
Walking around the North End, I stopped at my once-favorite general store and my old apartment — where I used to sit on the roof with a beer and watch little leaguers play Wiffle ball on the fields at the edge of Commercial Street. At Fenway Park the next night, I devoured a Fenway Frank and watched the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry ignite the stands, just like I remembered. Then I whipped around the corner to check out Tiger Mama, a hot Asian street foods bar. The night was filled with the thrill of discovery, and the pinch of nostalgia. I was home, again, for the first time.
Amelia Rayno covers food and travel for the Star Tribune. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram at @AmeliaRayno
