Every once in a while I get a hankering for a bad cocktail. Not just something poorly made, but shitty by design. This week I spent an afternoon at the bar of The Old Spaghetti Factory on Toronto’s Esplanade, and followed it up today by writing about quick, crappy mixed drinks for my Happy Hour column in the National Post.
And here it is.
Who doesn’t, on occasion, enjoy a sugary, boozy confection? All hail the platform for grenadine, the cheap mix, the fruity liqueurs. I’ve complained about them many times in the past, and yet … don’t they have a place?
All of which is to say, for those who give me shit for being a fussy drinker, I have my playful excursions.