We pick our poison where politicians were poisoned, where writers and artists nursed drinking habits that were the death of them. The same is true of Boston bars: That beer you chugged may have been poured from the same tap as Bulger’s last drink, as Reagan’s famous Boston pint, as a Kennedy’s first beer. You can’t walk into a Chipotle or grab a steak without stuffing your face in some place where history was made. When you start to fall in love with Boston, you begin to stumble upon landmarks in corners of the city you think are forgotten.
