It’s always been a call for debate and it doesn’t so much apply to the frou-frou Soho spots, but when you’re at a real man’s bar – anywhere with buck heads on the wall, peanut shells on the floor, and the band playing behind chicken wire (think, Roadhouse), you probably want to order a cold beer and not a Rum and Coke. I went to a place like that once on a date (good call, Will), and when I went to the bar for our drinks, I nearly got in fisticuffs with Chet and Dingus as they made fun of me for ordering mah lady’s cocktail. It never escalated to that, but when I came back to the table to see some chap-wearing, ten-gallon hatted 40 year-old gettin at my girl, I lost it and we left.
I guarantee, though, that if her vodka had a scorpion in it, it wouldn’t matter the mixer, those hicks would’ve been singing a different tune. Or perhaps not and they were just rude cowpokes with angry blood looking to fight anyone not smelling of manure and exhaust. Your guess is as good as mine.