Last night was the most recent in a long string of baffling disappointments at Summers. I showed up for Salsa Night with an acute mojito hankerin’ only to find that they had discontinued mojitos due to “lack of demand.”
My bewilderment exists on many levels, so I will attempt to peel them off one by one.
1. Since when has anything at Summers been driven by demand? If it was, we’d have good music on the radio, real bartenders, non-toxic building materials, a lock on the bathroom door, decent food and drink specials, NO karaoke, and certainly NONE of this whole “Salsa Experience” bullshit, which is why…
2. There should have never been mojitos in the first place! But if you are going to run a special, RUN THE FUCKING SPECIAL UNTIL IT’S DEAD, but apparently Summers doesn’t have the attention span for that, which is why…
3. PERONI came out of the Miller Lite tap on Monday! Don’t try to tell me it didn’t, Shawn, because I FUCKING KNOW IT DID.
4. Clearly the real culprit here is Summers’ incapacity to keep the necessary fresh mint on hand for the one day a week the special was offered. We get it. I mean, we really don’t, but we do. It doesn’t even have to do with muddling being hard work, because Shawn had that shit down to a science, and it was good. But even if we were to pretend for a millisecond that anything happening at Summers was due to actual customer demand (or lack thereof) we could reasonably expect they’d manage to stock a bottle of Angostura Bitters behind the bar, for the ascot-wearing jackasses and other whiskey lovers who may on occasion be inclined to enjoy a motherfucking Manhattan, one of the most classic and fundamental cocktails of all time. Bitters don’t go bad; they can sit on the shelf forever, they’re a STAPLE of any respectable bar stock, and unlike many others in that random and mysterious Summers’ array of tonics and potions (I’m looking at YOU, eight-year-old bottle of Apple Brandy), Bitters actually have a legitimate medicinal value.
5. At the core of my bewilderment lies an unshakable self-loathing for having allowed this completely typical, predictable occurrence to actually piss me off. Ahhh, Summers! Go fuck yourself.