The Brooklyn

There's a hole in the wall in Prospect Heights, and you decide to visit.

You walk too far past luminous hyacinth, the glowing white ghost of Grand Army Plaza, the faux-hieroglyphics of the Brooklyn Museum. It is two in the morning and you are probably already incredibly drunk. You are also probably dressed in a beach towel, slurring your words and looking for lazy and low-risk action. You will probably not remember this tomorrow, thank goodness.

Welcome to The Manhattans.

You've somehow found the dark storefront covered in newspaper clippings, you've somehow got past the Northern Liberation Front doorman and you've somehow let him bite your neck when you were trying to find your I.D. There is Lulu, the bartender, and she is pouring you a drink. You've, somehow, managed to forget to pay.

No matter.

Jessie's Girl is on repeat and there are people climbing ladders you didn't know were relevant. These ladders, in fact, are relevant. The people, in fact, are not. Upstairs there are endless crates of beer, a couple trouble-makers, and an amazingly good time. Below people drink Whiskey. Or maybe just you drink Whiskey. Or maybe the Whiskey just drinks you.

No matter.

The bathrooms are filthy. Offensive. Forgotten. You like it. And the signature drink, if there were one? Turns out it's the Brooklyn. Damn the Manhattans. Drink the Brooklyns. And good luck, lil darling, getting home.

Thank goodness you live in Brooklyn. Now if you could only remember where...

THE BROOKLYN

2 oz. rye or blended whiskey

1 oz. dry vermouth

Dash of maraschino liqueur

Dash of Amer Picon

shake all ingredients well with ice

pour into a rocks glass and garnish with lemon

try not to spill all over the table