Cold In Cleveland
It’s early evening, and the hotel bar is just starting to fill. I’m working the bar solo when a woman walks in.
Customer: “I’ll take a martini. Dry. And make sure it’s cold. I don’t like it when bartenders just wave the vermouth over the glass and call it a day.”
Me: “Got it—dry, shaken, well chilled.”
Customer: “And I want three olives. Not two. Not four. Three.”
Me: “Of course.”
I mix her drink exactly as asked, set it down with precisely three olives on a pick. She takes one sip, pauses, and leans in.
Customer: “This doesn’t taste like the one I had in Milan.”
Me: *Pleasantly.* “Probably not. This is made in Ohio.”
Customer: “Do you not take cocktail standards seriously here?”
Before I can answer, a guy two stools down leans over and says:
Guy: “Ma’am, this is Ohio. The only ‘dry martini’ we know is when we forget the ice. The fanciest thing in this zip code is the mall’s fountain.”
She glares at him, glares at me, eats two of the olives, and leaves the third floating in the glass like a silent protest.
