Don’t order a martini. I’ve never met a martini drinker I enjoyed. This sentiment certainly can’t be applied broadly on every martini aficionado on behalf of every bourbon enthusiast, but it still stands true for me. Once your order starts to resembles that of a Starbucks coffee, I’m out. Up, up, down, down, dirty, filthy, dry, extra dry, kind of dry, one olive, two, three, an onion, a twist, a peel, gin, vodka — while you’re reciting your preferences, I’m backing away. While I’m generalizing, martini drinkers are the types to think they know best. They are stubborn. They make remarks such as, “I can’t believe an olive touched my drink. It just ENTIRELY, significantly changes the flavor.” (I don’t care if it’s true. I don’t want to hear that bullshit right now!) They scoff, they grimace. They pay with Amex. Their conversations revolve around, in some small way or another, wielding power. They regularly, not rarely, send back food. They wear untailored suits. They resent and are resented, if only be me.
[More whiskey charming counsel this way.]