How can the B52 be called something else in France? “B cinquant-deux” indeed. I can put up with a San Francisco B52 being mixed and not having distinct layers of goodness in a shotglass. Mainly because you get about half a pint of mixed Baileys, Grand Marnier and Kahlua in a half pint glass in San Francisco. The volume makes up for the sloppy presentation. But when you get a tiny shotglass full of mixed up booze, and the barwench insists on lighting it and giving you a straw to drink it through, that really takes the biscuit.
I gave the barmaid a chance. I asked for a house special shooter. Surely this would be better presented. The “aZboob night shooter” duly arrived, and it tasted quite horrific, the inky blackcurrant disguising the secret payload of congealed baileys in vodka. After swallowing the snotty mouthful, the barmaiden informed me this was a woman’s drink, and she pointed to her mouth and waved her hand a bit to either imply that she either thought that swallowing snotty mouthfuls was either a woman’s role in life or that the drink was too sweet – I never did find out. I was intrigued by this bar attendant’s views of gender roles and alcohol, so I asked her for a man’s shooter. She brought back something approximating horse mouthwash, and indicated that it should be swilled before swallowing. Perhaps to let the delicate flavour of bleach to take hold on the pallette.
Three strikes and the barstaffer was out. We left for the gunfight in the nearby nightclub with no more shooters under our belts.
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