Keep Your Lavender Out of My Liquor
Mixed Drinks are a Great American Invention.
Only three are fit for consumption.
The martini, named after the Gold Rush drinking town of Martinez, California, is one of them.
The schoolteachers and lawyers and computer programmers and real-estate agents sitting in their suburban living rooms and splitting a THC gummy to catch a little buzz on a Wednesday night don’t realize, poor and deadened souls, that they’re heirs to a great American tradition. They don’t know that, once upon a time not too long ago, men and women like them went not home to Netflix and Chill but to bars, where they could order one of six or eight or ten old-fashioned drinks, which they could sip with conviction, feeling their horizons grow wider. They don’t understand that a good libation is supposed to send you out into the world — to mountains rich with silver, or to the next stall over where some gorgeous girl awaits you and the adventures you’ll have together. Instead, these poor shadows of men and women, sunken and self-medicated, retreat from the expansive appreciation of life’s possibilities, shunning cocktails as nothing more than empty vessels for empty calories. However, if …
