Eastern Standard

Every evening, somewhere around midnight, a magical—if vaguely treacherous—moment occurs in Boston. High up onto the back bar of one of the city’s most beloved restaurants clambers an employee who, teetering precariously, writes the late-night specials onto a gargantuan mirror. The items differ—flatiron steak with béarnaise, or maybe a Cubano with house spicy mustard—but what remains constant is the anticipation generated, and the rush of orders that inevitably follows.