Before going to a gala dinner last night–where I was served a birdy plate of game hen leg, chicken breast, and shredded duck with truffled cabbage, sautéed green sticks that bore striking resemblance to string beans in all but flavor, and a circle of well-browned puff pastry (yes, all on one plate!)–I stopped by the lobby bar of The Greenbrier in a puffy cream dress and ordered myself a mint julep.
“Have you had one before?” asked the bartender.
“Not here,” I answered, thinking the fine establishment might see itself as a true source or purveyor of mint juleps.
“But you know what it is?” the bartender confirmed, “because the name is misleading, the drink really packs a punch.”
I assured him I knew what I was ordering (and he wouldn’t have yet another returned drink from a Yankee lady who tried to soak up local culture through booze but expected a mint, frothy drink instead of a tumbler of bourbon). My dress might have been fluffy, but I don’t like my drinks fussy.
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