Blue Mermaid

409 The Hil, Portsmouth, NH, 03801, United States
Latitude: 43.07646, Longitude: -70.76284


Wifi Available
Cask Beer
Indoor Smoking
Available Parking
Beer Pricing: $$$
Public Transit
Proper Glassware
Outdoor Seating
Family Friendly
Selection: 3.25 | Atmosphere: 3.75 | Service: 4.25 | Food: 4.00
out of 100
Overall Beer Mapping Score
Based on 1 reviews.
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truh (3)
Saturday 22nd of December 2007 10:48:05 PM
“Completely unprovoked, he smashed me over the head with the fucking cooler,” John exclaimed to Kumar. Aaron smirked, still shaking his head and cut in.
“John, you are so full of shit. Unprovoked? I think not, kind sir,” Aaron said and took a quick gulp of his Dead Guy, and continued. “First of all, it wasn’t your head, it was your back. Secondly, you had been riding my ass all night. And then you take us down that torturous path in the complete dark, I get a branch in my eye, and you start cracking jokes about it. You deserved it and more.”
“Eh, ex, excuse me, riding your ass all night,” John sputtered, his martini sloshing around dangerously close to the rim in his right hand. Miraculously, he hadn’t spilled a drop, despite his state. “All right,” John said turning on me, “time to get the district attorney involved.” Whenever John was in his cups, more often than not he turned litigious, and started to refer to people as if he were in a court of justice. “Mr. District Attorney, what say you as to the truth of the matter?”

We had stumbled out of the Coat of Arms a little past 6:00 p.m. Jim spied Gilly’s across the road and rumbled off for some hotdogs, not even saying a word to us. The two-minute walk across the road and parking lot to the Mermaid did little to sober us up, although as we walked up the worn, wooden steps to enter, I recalled the ghost stories I had been told about this place when sitting at the bar, and that helped a little. Once, when the place was closed and a waitress was cashing out upstairs, nobody else around, she heard a knock on the window next to her. This was on the second floor. Another time, with just a customer and bartender closing down the place, they both saw and heard a little girl’s feet at the top of the stairway of the second floor dining and restroom area. They both ran upstairs, each going in the opposite direction at the top of the landing, and found nothing. These spooky thoughts were cast aside though as we entered the orange and yellow painted foyer and whipped around to the right through a small dining area to the bar proper. Aaron was already seated at one of the six tall stools at the marble-topped bar, a pint in front of him. The t.v. mounted above the bar had a Sox game on. We lucked out with three empty seats next to Aaron, happily, no seat for Jim whenever he decided to show, and I quickly took account of what was on tap – Moat Mountain Golden Pilsner, Rogue Dead Guy, Unibroue Ephemere, Shipyard Summer Ale, Magic Hat Hocus Pocus, Buzzard Bay Lager, and Harpoon IPA. There was also an assortment of bottles including Long Trail Double bag, La Fin du Monde, and some macro-pap, but I went with a Moat Mountain.

“Well,” I chose my words carefully, “from what I remember, John,” and his eyes wavered in and out of focus on me, “you had been riding everyone that night, not just Aaron, and on the way back to the cabin, you did say, ‘What are you, a woman?’ to Aaron after something had happened, and the next thing I knew there was Styrofoam and beer bottles crashing down all over the place on the path.” And that was the truth. We had been out at the Cove, a bonfire raging, lots of good beer, but by 1:00 a.m. or so the wind had come up and it had turned colder. We decided to head back to John’s cabin down a path we had all walked a number of times, only John hadn’t cut back the summer brush yet, and it was already July. As a result, those not as familiar with the twists and turns it took had some trouble navigating it, and particularly Aaron who had volunteered to haul back the cooler with a considerable amount of beer still left in it. And of course John didn’t help any with his constant chatter about poison ivy, deer ticks with Lyme disease – “You’re gonna have to get a mirror out when you get home and check under your balls for those critters,” and just generally egging Aaron on as he grew more frustrated with the heavy cooler. With the woman comment, Aaron reared back with a roar and crashed the cooler against John’s back, the Styrofoam exploding everywhere, bottles falling and clanking in the dark undergrowth. In retaliation, John swept up as much of the Styrofoam as he could and threw it on the hood of Aaron’s car back at the cabin.

Both John and Aaron nodded in agreement with this telling of the story, Kumar laughing and rubbing at his hands with a bar napkin. I picked up the Caribbean-flavored menu but decided not to order anything this time – in the past, the black bean soup, lobster chowder, and Jamaican jerk chicken had always been excellent. We continued to have drinks, John growing increasingly more hostile with Aaron, Kumar alternating between the taps and a large glass of water that the bartender kept up to the brim, when all hell broke loose.

“Aaron, for god’s sake,” John yelled, “rip the panties out of the crack of your ass and order a real drink!” I dared not look as Aaron’s fist hurtled towards John’s nose.
Selection: 3.25 | Atmosphere: 3.75 | Service: 4.25 | Food: 4.0

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