Oh my first night in New York, I managed to hurt a bartender’s feelings, and I STILL feel terrible, while I’m sure he’s long forgotten me. Anyway. Travis and I wandered his neighborhood looking for a place to grab after-dinner drinks, and we ended up at a quiet (it was Wednesday night) little cocktail bar.
My eyes scanned the chalkboard menu and settled on the least syrupy-sounding thing. When the bartender set it down in front of me and I took a sip, I was blissfully unaware that he was watching my face like a hawk. A hawk!
As soon as I let the glass go, he snatched it and down the sink it went. The horror. “You’re not feeling it. I can tell you’re not really into that drink.” He wasn’t wrong, but still–it’s not like I made a face or did this:
I’m just not a syrupy kind of lady. I have simple syrup, mint syrup and ginger syrup in the fridge, but I use them so sparingly that they go bad more often than I like to admit.
