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Boston Globe

Mr. H actually made this curmudgeon like the Seaport and feel like a kid again

On a recent weekend, friends and I ventured to Mr. H on Northern Avenue for a 40-something birthday celebration, blocks from where my grandparents toasted their golden anniversary at Anthony's Pier 4. In 1997, Anthony's was the hottest and only ticket on the block. But, as the neighborhood mutated from fringe netherworld to expense-account wonderland, I mainly returned under duress, collecting parking tickets and grievances with each visit. Advertisement I know what you're thinking. If you loathe the Seaport so much, why go? In this case, interloping was the point. We wanted to try Were there quieter destinations for Chinese food? No doubt. Easier places to get to? Quite so. It would be an adventure. Thrillingly out-of-character, even. For a few hours, we would forfeit our earthly obligations for a universe unfettered by the gravitational pull of carpools, lacrosse tournaments, and chicken nuggets. To shed our identity was precisely the point. And so we piled into an Uber (park in the Seaport, where a spot costs more than a steak? We weren't that untethered) and headed toward the city for our 6 p.m. reservation. A sensible hour: I'd be nestled in my suburban boudoir, crime show streaming and magnesium ingested, by 10. Advertisement Drunken octopus and spicy cucumbers at Mr. H. Josh Jamison Our driver deposited us, drone-like, into a mixed-use maze. We smoothed our dresses, tossed our sensible yet stylish bags over our shoulders, and tugged at a heavy door. When a synth-drum beat began to stir, I instinctively groped for my handbag ibuprofen. I'd ventured here to feel unlike myself, but maybe that was impossible. Were we too old? Too off-trend? Or maybe just too cynical. I haven't had this much fun at a restaurant in a long time. The food was sublime, fast and furious and shareable and electric: crispy cucumbers coated in chili oil; spicy salmon puffs on rice cakes that tasted like honey; scallion pancakes dribbling with runny fried eggs, a shameless slather of American cheese, and pickled peppers. 'This is so good!' we kept repeating, gobsmacked, as our waiter checked on us — again, again, and again — ensuring that our birthday feast was celebratory. We passed around a Pearl River, a tangerine-hued, chili-tequila concoction with apricot brandy, yuzu lemon, and coriander, as the lights dimmed and the music spinned. 'This is the best, smoothest cocktail I've ever had,' declared one well-traveled friend, who has sipped spirits everywhere from Luxembourg to Thailand. Our waiter beamed. The Pearl River at Mr. H in the Seaport. Josh Jamison Crab and shrimp shumai came next, flecked with gold leaf in a bisque-y broth; fried rice, again with a runny egg; fat, crispy shrimp rolled in a hot honey glaze. Finally a Buddha carved from chocolate mousse in a river of cookies and cream appeared, birthday candles flickering and smoke billowing to the ceiling. Advertisement As we held our iPhones aloft to capture the perfect Instagram shot, a group of six or so women strutted past. They were us, 20 or so years ago: skyscraper heels, dewy makeup, ready for a night on the town. Their 8 p.m. was our 6 p.m. We put down our phones. 'They look gorgeous,' declared one of my friends. 'You know, we should really tell them.' Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the Buddha. But, after we paid our bill (ouch) and bid our solicitous server goodbye, we paused at this booth filled with glamorous strangers. The drumbeats quickened. The bar was filling up. Our Uber idled outside, ready to whisk us back over the Charles. But still we stopped. A chocolate Buddha at Mr. H. Kara Baskin 'You all look beautiful,' we yelled over the din. They looked up at us and grinned. 'Oh my God! So do you!' they squealed back. I straightened a bit in my Boden dress. Was it 2005 or 2025? Who could say? Suddenly, we were all the same age. 'Is it someone's birthday?' I asked. One of the women pointed. 'It's hers! She's 26!' 'It's my friend's birthday, too, but she's not 26,' I said. They laughed. 'Have an amazing night,' we told them. 'You, too!' they called after us, giggling. We already did, I thought, without a twinge of regret. Kara Baskin can be reached at