Today’s my birthday. I was born around 9 at night, just about the right time, my friend T. notes, for a cocktail.
So, I suppose it’s appropriate that, as I gain another year, Grub Street runs a column devoted to age-appropriate drinking. Some of it I buy — yup, if you’re a geriatric boozer, you can get away with ordering a slippery nipple, whatever that maybe. Other assertions, not so much. For example: “Vodka martinis on the rocks are for mild alcoholics who have given up on happiness.” Maybe true. Also, they’re for people who have given up on their bartender’s ability to mix a cocktail. And for those of us who learnt how to drink from Esther Greenwood.
Fortunately, with my advancing years, I fall into the category of “stiff drinks.” One of which I’ll need. It’s my birthday, after all.