A few weeks ago, I made a grievous error: I ordered an Old Fashioned at a chain restaurant.
See, I’m a bourbon/rye/whiskey girl at my heart, and there are few things I love more than a well-made Old Fashioned. I should have known that I was not going to get that at that particular establishment; were the environment to not have given it away, certainly the fact that the bartender looked up the recipe in a binder should have. Or maybe the fact that, when asked, he said he would be making it with Jim Beam (we know how that goes from twitter) or that he started the drink with a neon red cherry and a thick orange slice.