This is my sixth season covering the Bruins for The Boston Globe. Of 41 regular-season road games, I travel to approximately 30. I enjoy watching these hockey games, reporting on their significance, and molding my interpretations into what I hope is the definitive account of what took place. It is, however, a hard-hat job. On a game day, I arrive rinkside at 10 a.m. to cover the morning skate. I sometimes close my laptop at 11:30 p.m. In that span, I usually write 2,500 total words for the next day’s paper, for Boston.com, and Twitter. Food has become my salvation: something to look forward to and something to feel good about after very little sleep.
As much as good food pleases me, its pursuit is just as enjoyable. Via methods of pre-scouting such as Chowhound.com, cabbie inquisitions, and intuition (menus written in chalk almost always reflect dependable joints), I track down a meal as fiercely as Tim Thomas battles for pucks. On nights before games, day-of mornings, and afternoons before the puck drops, with the latest New Yorker in hand to read between bites, I hunt for bold tastes at cheap prices. I rip myself after misses. I revel over scores.
There’s the hubcap-size plate at Ottawa’s Shawarma Palace - spicy chicken, rice, potatoes, hummus, garlic sauce, pita bread, pickles, and salad piled high. There’s the roast pork sandwich with provolone and broccoli rabe at Philadelphia’s DiNic’s, where the first bite is more a suck of cheesy, garlicky pig juice. The jackpot at New York’s Ess-A-Bagel, where I always buy two dozen plain and sesame to bring home, putting my car tires at risk of puncture because of their weight.
