Like a highly-paid nanny or an expert masseuse, Parker House is free of the intimidation factor that other Bostonian gentlemanly quarters have in spades. Maybe that’s because the Parker House is a bit of a fraud. Notice, for instance, the tourists with their luggage rollers and shopping bags fresh from Faneuil Hall; or the way everything in the lobby feels like it’s been brushed by a one-karat Midas touch. They’ve put the Kennedy name on just about anything that can be named (the lobster roll, the conference room, etc.) which, quite frankly, is the oldest Boston tourist trap trick in the book. But The Parker House can’t help but charm with its nouveau richesse. Take a seat in the bar, and you’ll be served a warm bowl of mixed nuts. Finish half of it, and they’ll swap you for a new bowl before you even notice. Chandeliers. Dark carpeting. A cocktail menu with extravagantly named, overpriced drinks. Maybe it’s all a show, and maybe behind all those curtains, it’s a pretty average bar. But the Parker has a lot of curtains – enough to get lost in and enough not to be able to see past if you don’t want to.
