Can a pig whistle?

Lately I’ve been drinking a lot of Manhattans. I am sure it comes as quite a surprise to you that I like my drink.  A lot.  I think perhaps I have watched too much Mad Men and yearned for the day of yore.  I can imagine my dad going to work in the 60s, a bright energetic 20-something, being called into his boss’ office to have snort of the old Scotch and talk about the secretaries or the Celtics.  Except he doesn’t drink and he didn’t work in an office.  More of a factory.

Back to my drinks.  I haven’t sworn off vodka, but the Martinis are become less of my standby and more of my pinch hitter.  I’ve been challenging bartenders to make me something with rye, like a Manhattan, which with Rye might really be a Brooklyn, but I digress.  I like the name and I think I’m supposed to like Rye. If it’s good enough for my Ruben, it should be good enough for my drink.  And I do.  I like  Bullit and I like Templeton.  Last night, when ask what the good rye was, the barkeep handed me list of the top shelf.  And there it was.  I had heard about it.  I had seen it, but I had not had it yet.  Whistle Pig!  It was delicious and yummy.

I could go on and on about how this flavor or that flavor blew my mind, but I can’t and I won’t.  I was drinking.  I can tell you what I do remember, though.  $19.  Wow.  A pizza place in Oakland charged me $19 for a cocktail.  Yeah it was a fancy wood fired pizza joint, with a water view.  (Don’t get too excited, the estuary is nothing too special.)  I’m not complaining I was just surprised.  I think I’ll go find another Manhattan in a few moments.  Cheers!

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