Somewhere in the world, a pharmacist cries...

So there I was, in the L street pub. I had met up with some friends from far far away and we had finally gotten out to a local bar. The L street is the pub that all the townies went to in goodwill hunting. I figured it would be a good spot to visit for their first pub in boston, especially since it was already kind of late. So we roll out to the L street and we belly up to the bar.

Like Viking warlords we lay our proverbial axes on the bar and order a manly drink. A drink that our fathers and grandfathers demanded in the days of their virile youth. We would like two manhattan's barkeep. The bartender blinks at us in disbelief. Then asks us if we are sure. "Fuckin-A right we are sure" we reply, with bravado borne of those who have seen the darkest depths of the tankard and emerged to tell the tale. The bartender thinks for a long moment, then slides down to the other end of the bar. He beings to concoct the opus of his drink mixing career. Drawing upon his years of previous experience to provide us with a drink that has never been ordered in all of his time at the L street.

He slides the drinks over to us. The drinks have legs that would make a broadway dancer jealous. After a brief hint of the bourbon aroma we admire the presentation of the drink. An artful lemon, a marachino cherry, and sweet vermouth mixed with god's own bourbon. This was the drink we were given. The kind of drink that ballsy world leaders would have gladly bellied up to any bar for. The bartender had an anxious look in his eye as we tasted our drinks. With a respectful nod we informed him that he earned the stripes on his bartender uniform that night.

After our Manhattan's, my friend suggests that he has the perfect drink to order. A Scotch and Coke. I look at him for a clue that he is fucking with me, but he seems to truly believe this is a good drink. Being that I havent seen him in a long time, and he is a very astute pupil of libations, I order it despite my reservations. When I do so, our eridute bartender looks at me like I just asked him for a Zima. I blink for a second, look at my friend, look at the barman, look at my friend, and decide to trust my comrades judgement. BIG MISTAKE!

So there I am with a Scotch and Coke in front of me. With some gay ass straw and a goofy lime attached to the side of the glass. I go in for a taste... and it I realize a donkey's ass might taste better than this shite. When I inform my friend of his egregious error he sits there and thinks about it for a few minutes. Then he blurts out he meant whiskey. That fucking bastard.