Craft Growler Shop Represents the Grown Side of South End

After initially hitting snooze on an invite to Craft Growler Shop and Tasting Room, I finally committed and quickly realized I’d almost missed out on a long-overdue reunion. Not one, but two of my favorite members of the Dead Dad’s Club would be there.

This is a crew of co-workers-turned-family and the kind of people I can trauma bond with for life, the ones who know the version of me that South End raised.

What could’ve been just another night out instead became a gentle reminder that while many of our old stomping grounds have faded into QC lore, a few oldies-but-goodies are still standing their ground, holding space for laughter, nostalgia and a night that oddly felt like coming home.

At first mention of Craft, it hit like a memory I couldn’t quite place — the kind that sits on the tip of your tongue but refuses to introduce itself. Then I pulled up in my Lyft and everything snapped into focus.

I’d written about this place 10 whole years ago. Cue the self-imposed embarrassment of realizing it’s been that long since my last visit, immediately followed by the harsher truth of, “Damn … you old.”

Back then, Craft Growler Shop was prime territory for bar-hopping twenty-somethings cosplaying adulthood, dressed up in craft beer we couldn’t stomach and glorified “girl dinner.” Now, under the soft glow of twinkling string lights, the once stark white building felt warmer, cozier and far more self-aware.

From a 35-year-old POV, it felt seasoned and subtly evolved, like it had grown up right alongside me, promising a refuge from the South End Chads tucked behind its lived-in brick walls. Instead of chaotic chatter, it played host to a 40th birthday party and low-volume conversations that once would’ve had me plotting a nap but now felt, dare I say, age-appropriate.

I scanned for a subtle entrance, convinced my sultry all-black look would be met with slow stares and quiet intrigue. Instead, I was immediately humbled when a stranger motioned me over to her table and, for a split second, I just knew I was about to be told a private event was in progress and I was clearly in the wrong place. Sigh.

But no! In a soft whisper laced with empathy, she leaned in and said, “Your fly is open. I just didn’t want you meeting your friends without knowing.”

My eyes dropped to the gaping hole beneath the snap of my spandex riding pants. “Thank God I have a onesie on under this,” I chuckled back toward her ear as her tablemates politely looked away so I could zip myself back into dignity.

So much for subtle. If not for that onesie and the emotional fragility I’ve long outgrown, this would’ve been a far more dramatic entrance … and exit.

Apparently, this version of adulthood comes with less sultry mystique and more discreet moments of sisterhood, the kind that saves you from unforgettable humiliation while pretending it never happened at all.

I awkwardly turned away, panic-scanning the room for a mercy laugh, mentally racing through which would happen first: finding my girlfriends or sprinting to the bar to baptize this wardrobe malfunction.

After a clumsy tussle to drop my bags and exchange a few quasi-church hugs, my eyes and frazzled nerves made it painfully obvious I’d skipped the pregame and needed a drink stat.

That’s when I clocked the last third of espresso martinis lingering in both of their glasses, the kind that silently says, “Yeah… you’re about to need a refill,” and just like that, my anxiety dissolved. Craft has a liquor license?! Though freed from being boxed in by craft beer, we know exactly where this was going. Pinot grigio — at least two.

After that first glass and their second round, it was like we were 25 again. We fell right back into our old rhythm, half-heartedly mingling before being pulled into our familiar orbit of gossip and rapid-fire life updates.

Read more: Room Service Is a Shining Light in a Camp North End That Has Come of Age

Naturally, this slid straight into a not-so-subtle suggestion of an afterparty for three, fully aware it would send us tumbling down the familiar rabbit hole that always ends in a hangover.

Against our better judgment, we snuck off to another throwback with a facelift, Must Be Nice, the elevated sibling of Lost & Found. It was unusually quiet for a Friday night, which created space for the kind of unfiltered decompression we rarely allow ourselves.

Just when I thought my girlfriend’s emotional sigh signaled a drowsy period on the end of our night, someone suggested one last “quick drink” at another South End survivor: The Union.

Not even 30 minutes into our final stop, my girlfriend accidentally launched Jello from an injection tube across the bar. Insert “it was at this moment” meme.

Our laughter echoed, then we looked at each other and silently knew: these walls have seen enough of us.