The Asgard Irish Pub and Restaurant
We’re back, bitches! Which I know I’ve said before, so blah blah blah, fuck me I’m an asshole, blah. Look, do you want mea culpas or do you want raving about tasty food? Neither, you want pictures of my meals! Ha! Goddamn it, when did I become that person? Probably a few months before I bought this fucking domain name.
The Asgard is an Irish, not Norse pub, but I’m sure Tom and Chris would still be welcome here if they showed up in their Avengers attire. It’s in Central Square and close enough to Toscanini’s that if you eat a late brunch you can saunter across a street or two and have the best fucking ice cream ever afterwards.
…fuck, why didn’t we do that?
Anyway, it was a cold and rainy day in April that for some reason showed up at the end of June when we ate here, and I was so fucking happy to have a warm mug in my hands that I forgave them their only okay coffee. And then they served my meal, and I didn’t give a shit about that at ALL anymore.
This fucking thing showed up and my day was MADE. The waffle was crispy and chewy in all the right places, the chicken was juicy and delicious, and the spicy maple syrup was real and just the right level of heat. I was in comfort food heaven and hummed to myself throughout the entire damn meal.
Talls, being Talls, went for his favorite land of a million puddings meal, the Irish breakfast. They may not have named their restaurant correctly, but they did a Celtic brunch standard proud. He ate the entire thing and declared it, as we say in Boston, wicked pissah.
To sum up: shitty coffee but fucking awesome food. Better to brunch here and get your coffee affogato over at Toscanini’s, I think.



