Boredom is the enemy. Complacency its sword. When my friend John called from Boston, we jumped at the chance for an improptu road trip. What ensued was three nights of pub crawls, T rides and seafood binges. And of course a search for great beer.

There’s nothing like a weekend in a major metropolis to show you how good they have it.

From the moment we unpacked at our West End hotel, I was itching to get to the Publick House, a Belgian beer mecca legendary enough for its name to be known up and down the East Coast. But its distant Brookline location and our impending meetup with friends unconcerned about the nuances of craft brewing meant it would have to wait. Fortunately, in Boston, even the pubs without a devoted craft beer selection still have a great vibe, friendly people, and Harpoon IPA on draft. The Sevens, in Beacon Hill, down the street from our accommodation, also makes a kick-ass chili.

We’d have to wait for day two, Sunday, to really begin the beer trek. And we did so at the Boston Beer Works on Landsdowne Street, in uncomfortable proximity to that crumbling shithole, Fenway Park.

For a brew Pub, the Beer Works is a bit of an enigma. The enormity of the place, as well as the obvious huge amount of cash outlay on marketing and brand image collateral, evoke the many overblown, now long-extinct ventures of the first wave of the brewpub fad. But the place is buoyed by its location. It’s in the middle of everything. Boston University sprawls down one street, Northeastern down another. And, of course, there’s the hordes of baseball spectators that get vomited onto Landsdowne after every home game.

And, in fairness, the quality of Boston Beer Works’ beer makes it deserving of custom. The Buckeye Oatmeal Stout is smooth and silky, with a mellow, gently roasted character and an unexpected hoppy finish. While I enjoyed all the beers in the tasting flight, the Buckeye became the pint of choice.

Tasting flight at the Beer Works

We lingered at the Beer Works for quite a while, but I was getting a nasty rash from being this close to Fenway Park, so we hopped the “C” train to Washington Square for the real epicenter of our trip: The Publick House.

Most places that emphasize Belgian Beer get all cutesy with the name and image. You get oblique references to the Manneken Pis or Trappist brewing tradition. While the adjoining Monk’s Cell does fall slight victim to this, the main bar’s name, The Publick House, is more evocative of an 18th century New England Inn. It’s as if, while retaining full appreciation of Belgian Beer, the place refuses to be typecast.

Some people perceive an air of arrogance about the place. Signs above the bar shout “No Shots” and “No Pitchers.” There are “ground rules” printed on the menu restating the lack of liquor and softball team party containers, as well as a written policy against refunding money just because a patron doesn’t like his or her beer. I took this as more of a sad necessity in order for this pub to be what it is, since it’s located in the middle of a college town.

Anyway, all that stuff gets pushed to the side once you look at the beer list. We’re not exactly spoiled for choice in Rochester, but the selection here, full of old friends I’d encountered overseas and rare gems one must go seriously out of the way to buy, nailed my ass to the bench for several hours to come.

Belgian beer doesn’t lend itself to extended sampling; it’s too strong for that. So I gravitated to two of the best beers in the world, which will probably never cross the counters of our beer bars at home: Boon Kriek and Rodenbach Grand Cru.

The advantages for beer lovers of living on the big coastal cities become more glaring with every pilgrimage. More distributors. More choices. More people with a passion for beer and the scratch to open and run their own dedicated beer bars.

I hope that, as tastes are made and people migrate, more of that will find its way to the rest of us.

-Mark