It always starts the same way: “Come out for drinks!”
Maybe, I think to myself. I need to do more research.
“What’s the name of the place?” I ask. ”O’Dooley’s Irish McIrishman Pub,” someone says.
I get a pit in my stomach. I fire up Google. I find the page on MenuPages. My fears are confirmed: yup, this place only serves beers and offers a dinky wine list.
“I’m going to pass,” I say.
“But come onnnnnnnnn. You never come ouuttttttt,” someone whines. That’s because I want to go somewhere where I can get a fucking fancy cocktail. Keep reading »



























