Garlic High

It was only a little past five but we were famished. And we knew there wouldn’t be much of a line for dinner at such an early hour. And with just eight tables, there’s always a line. The shoebox of a room has been in the same spot on Hanover Street, the main drag of Boston’s North End, for more than forty-five years. It’s nestled between shit shops blaring accordion music and selling crude Italian tchotchkes, and across the street from St. Leonard’s Roman Catholic Church…