So I decided to be a smartass and order a Makers Mark Manhattanat Dylan Prime. I love the city, after all, so how bad can the drink be? As it turns out, it can be pretty fucking horrendous. Who knew a martini made entirely of Maker’s Mark bourbon would be disgusting? Never has a booze experiment gone so wrong–that is since the great gin rickey placemat debacle of 1998. The thing kinda tasted how I would imagine a glass full of cool Windex would taste. I’m glad for the shiny esophagus and stomach, but how or why anyone would find this concoction tasty is beyond me. Granted, I’m not a 93-year-old man, but shouldn’t booze, and the Manhattan in particular, be accessible to all? Why does William Faulkner get to enjoy the sweet, sweet nectar, when it turns to vinegar in my mouth?
I’m done experimenting with booze. I’m going to stick to my Kettle Ones and soda. I’m sticking to beer. Maybe I’ll hit the Jack occasionally. But, Lord, I’m done ordering anything named after a city, a person or an animal.
