Last Call Daisy Buchanan’s

I heard last week that Daisy Buchanan’s in the Back Bay was closing up.

I won’t tell you exactly how old I was when I first went to Daisy Buchanan’s, let’s just say I should not have been there. Things were different then, and getting into a bar was based more on who you knew or who your sister was dating than other matters, such as an ID that said you were eight inches taller or had shocking blond hair.


I happened to be around the Back Bay the other day, and, feeling a bit nostalgic, I stopped in. While I admit that my memories of the place are kind of fuzzy, it didn’t seem to have changed much, except that it occurred to me that the last time I was there it was filled with cigarette smoke.

I was from the inner suburbs, and for some reason (other than their liberal ID policy) Daisy’s was a destination for us. I don’t know what the Bostonian translation of “Bridge and Tunnel Crowd” is, but that was us. When my high school buddy came back from the Marines, we headed for Daisy’s. Beer was cheap, there were girls there, what more do you want at that age?

Alas, there were no girls there on my last trip, save the bartender. It was an early crowd, for sure, but I don’t think there was a single person there without gray hair. Men sat at the bar and read the Herald, played Keno, and talked about the World Series. So, yes, many years after my first visit, I felt right at home.

Until I put the coaster over my beer and stepped out for a smoke, and remembered this was Newbury Street. I went out with my friend, who rocked his navy peacoat, I was fighting the cooler weather with my New Balance windbreaker. We stood and watched the beautiful people walk by. More than anything, we looked like a couple of old-school Irish cops.

There are a million stories better than mine about the place, but with dive bars becoming something of an endangered species in my city, I stood there on the corner and wondered how this unpretentious watering hole held onto such a fancy corner for so long. I don’t want to say it was the “good old days” of smoke-filled bars, bouncers with brass knuckles in their pockets, nineteen year old drinkers, and people doing nefarious things in the bathroom stalls, some change is for the good.

I’m not lamenting Daisy’s. She had as good a run as any of us could expect. I’m lamenting a small piece of my misspent youth.

Boston Herald – Daisy Buchanan’s Will Serve its Last This Fall


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