There's a certain restaurant in Winnipeg that gives employees of citrusboy's work 40% off their final bill. This includes the booze.
Woohoo. Woohoo. Woohoo.
So several of us decided to tie one on last night and possibly squeeze in some food if the liquid diet in our tummies allowed for such things.
I'd been preped all day Saturday for the lovely, lovely Extra-Dirty Gin Martini about to come my way. But, of course, you're talking about yours truly and you're also talking about Winnipeg, so these things never come to fruition.
I order my martini. I get a pink martini. PINK, people. Why? Why is my dirty martini pink, I ask you?
I sniff it. Smells like gin. I taste it. Well, not bad I guess, even though it's pink. Did someone spill some grenadine in there?
But since the pink was a little unsettling, I decided that my next drink was going to be a damn-hot Caesar. Extra-large. The caesar was good. So good in fact that I thought my mouth was going to spontaneously combust. Hot Damn!
But then I realized, caesar is not what I wanted. Let's give the gin martini another try. Maybe the pink was some mixology experiment gone badly wrong.
I order an Extra-extra-extra Dirty Gin Martini. And wouldn't you know it? The waitress is all: We don't have any more olives. Oh, well does that mean you've run out of olive juice as well? She's all: Uhhh, no idea - I'll go check.
Turns out there is no olive juice either. At 8 in the evening, the bar has run out of olives and olive juice. Seriously? Really? Come ON, people!
So someone convinced me to try a vodka martini with those little pickled onions. The waitress is all: Pickled what? Apparently they don't have those EITHER.
What kind of a place is this? WHAT KIND? Grr. I hate you, Winnipeg! HATE!
But there was a redeeming highlight of the evening: My ass got groped by a gay man. Weehaw!
Woohoo. Woohoo. Woohoo.
So several of us decided to tie one on last night and possibly squeeze in some food if the liquid diet in our tummies allowed for such things.
I'd been preped all day Saturday for the lovely, lovely Extra-Dirty Gin Martini about to come my way. But, of course, you're talking about yours truly and you're also talking about Winnipeg, so these things never come to fruition.
I order my martini. I get a pink martini. PINK, people. Why? Why is my dirty martini pink, I ask you?
I sniff it. Smells like gin. I taste it. Well, not bad I guess, even though it's pink. Did someone spill some grenadine in there?
But since the pink was a little unsettling, I decided that my next drink was going to be a damn-hot Caesar. Extra-large. The caesar was good. So good in fact that I thought my mouth was going to spontaneously combust. Hot Damn!
But then I realized, caesar is not what I wanted. Let's give the gin martini another try. Maybe the pink was some mixology experiment gone badly wrong.
I order an Extra-extra-extra Dirty Gin Martini. And wouldn't you know it? The waitress is all: We don't have any more olives. Oh, well does that mean you've run out of olive juice as well? She's all: Uhhh, no idea - I'll go check.
Turns out there is no olive juice either. At 8 in the evening, the bar has run out of olives and olive juice. Seriously? Really? Come ON, people!
So someone convinced me to try a vodka martini with those little pickled onions. The waitress is all: Pickled what? Apparently they don't have those EITHER.
What kind of a place is this? WHAT KIND? Grr. I hate you, Winnipeg! HATE!
But there was a redeeming highlight of the evening: My ass got groped by a gay man. Weehaw!
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