A generic bar name for a generic sports bar. Seems fitting. Because someone actually sat around thinking about his life’s ambition and made the decision to call that thing The Central. It’s like naming your son John. Or your dog Rover. It injects no personality into anything and says to your customers that they should expect nothing of substance to come of their time at your establishment.
Otherwise you could watch a Celtics game on one of the many televisions and drink a mid-tier American beer. And maybe check out the faux Irish thing. The ceiling seems kind of low and the wood a shade of brown that is super noncommittal. Everything just feels squatty.
I suppose a generic joint deserves a generic review. It’s a bar. There’s apparently some swanky lounge-like thing either upstairs or downstairs or in the back or something. But the swanky spot is only for swanky private party people. So we stuck to the main space and bored ourselves to the point of going back into the rain to escape it. And, look, nothing here is offensive or anything, but there is absolutely no reason to roll in here unless you’re avoiding a monsoon or really need a men’s room. Or maybe you’re a Jets fan who just needs a quiet place to cry.