Grumblecore

You know you've become the worst sort of cantankerous dilettante when it takes longer to order your cocktail than catch an Uber in the suburbs. I told the waitress I wanted Jameson with baked-apple bitters and a citrus zest. Not a splash of juice. No juice. None.

I tighten the eye contact and spell all this out with my finest enunciation. I do this because I’ve learned the cold hard truth about mixologists. They are coy. They slip in a splash of their peche or aperol or bespoke walnut liqueur or their spiced honey whatever. And I become unhappy with my evening.

If the establishment does not have Jameson, no one should offer me bourbon and they should not offer scotch and they should not offer rye. They should expound upon the virtues of another brand of whiskey for Christ’s sake.

Furthermore, and let’s be clear on this: I want my drink in a rocks glass and I want it on the rocks. I do not want sad little chips of ice. And I do not want any glass with a stem or a triangular silhouette. Some people may have mastered the art of drinking from such precarious glassware without spilling all over a bystander's feet. I am not one of those people. 

Tom sits there and rolls his eyes. He orders a microbrew. Our drinks arrive. Mine is great. His beer is warm. The waitress tells him that “cask beers" are always warm. Tom sends it back anyway. Ha ha ha, I think out loud. Such irony.