Lou Files a Formal Grievance Regarding THC Cocktails and the Line Item You Did Not Order
I have the receipt in my hand right now. I am looking at it. Forty-seven dollars for two drinks, and I am standing here trying to find where in this building I received forty-seven dollars worth of anything. I have been in this city a long time. I have paid a lot of bar tabs. This one is different, and I am filing a complaint.
The grievance is specific. This is not a general complaint about prices, though I have those too, and they are extensive, and I will get to them another time. This is about a particular category of charge that has crept into the modern bar tab like a slow leak in a pipe. You do not notice it at first. Then you are standing under two inches of water wondering when it started. The charge is: the vibe. They are billing you for the vibe.
The Itemized Receipt, as Lou Sees It
Let me break this down for you the way I would break down any contract, because that is what a bar tab is. It is a contract. You ordered something. They made it. You pay for what you ordered. That is the deal. That is the whole deal. Here is what they actually charged me for:
- The drink itself: sure, fine, I accept this line item.
- The ice: I have said my piece on ice before and I will say it again. Ice is weather. Weather is free. I should not be subsidizing precipitation.
- The garnish: a dehydrated orange wheel the diameter of a coat button, placed on the rim of the glass like a tiny, useless sombrero. This is not an ingredient. This is a costume. The drink is wearing a costume and you are paying for the wardrobe.
- The "craft": they used this word on the menu. Craft. One word, no explanation. Craft what? Craft costs extra now? I have been doing things with my hands for sixty-three years, nobody has offered to pay a surcharge for it.
- The bartender's presence: I watched this man. He was there, I will give him that. He was physically in the room. He also spent four minutes and twenty seconds explaining the provenance of the bitters to the couple next to me, who did not ask and whose faces made that clear. I am paying for that conversation. I did not consent to that conversation.
- The energy of the space: this is a real thing they charge for. Not on the receipt as a line item, obviously, they are not going to write it down, but it is baked in. The dim lighting, the exposed brick, the speakers playing music at a volume specifically calibrated to make conversation difficult so you lean in and feel like something is happening. Something is happening. You are being charged for a feeling.
- The bartender's vibe: separate from his presence. His presence is that he is there. His vibe is the way he tilts his head when he pours, the way he sets the glass down slowly like he is placing a sleeping child in a crib. His vibe is not a cocktail ingredient. His vibe does not belong on my bill.
I have done the math. Of the forty-seven dollars, I can account for maybe nine dollars in actual drink. The rest is atmosphere, attitude, and a man's personal energy, none of which I ordered, none of which was listed on the menu, and none of which did anything for the old fashioned, which was fine but not forty-seven dollars worth of fine. I have had better old fashioneds. I have made better old fashioneds. I made one last Tuesday and charged myself nothing, because I am not a criminal.
What a Drink Is Supposed to Cost and What It Is Supposed to Contain
Here is what I want from a bar tab. I want to pay for what I ordered. That is it. The whole philosophy. You can write it on a napkin, which you also will not charge me for.
This is why I keep a four-pack of Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned in the fridge and I do not apologize for it. Eight milligrams of hemp-derived THC. Real cocktail flavor, same ingredients and extracts the bartenders use, the ones who are not charging me for their aura. Bitters, orange, oak. No smoked rosemary sprig. No dehydrated citrus costume. No vibe tax. No man explaining the emotional journey of the rye to me while I try to have a conversation with another human being. It costs what it costs. I know what is in it. It is on the can. Every single ingredient is accounted for, and not one of them is someone's personality.
That is what a line item is supposed to look like. That is an honest bill.
And I will tell you something else. These are THC cocktails done the way THC cocktails should be done. Fast onset because of the nano-emulsification, which means it hits in minutes, not an hour from now when you have already ordered a second drink you did not need because you thought the first one was not working. Clean offset. Eight milligrams is the right number. Not enough to end your evening, enough to start it. The room does not tilt. You just get a little funnier, a little more talkative, and the whole night loosens up. That is the point. That is the only point. Nobody charged extra for it.
The Broader Problem with the Modern Bar and Its Feelings
I am not against bartenders. I want to be clear. Some of my best experiences have involved bartenders. I am against the idea that a bartender's internal state is a commodity I am purchasing along with my drink. I am against "mixologist" as a job title, which implies there is mixing happening at a level that requires a new word. I have been mixing things my whole life. I mixed cement once. Nobody called me a cementologist.
I am against the exposed brick. Not brick itself, brick is a fine material, I have no complaint with brick as a structural element. I am against brick that is only there so the room feels like something is happening in it. That is brick doing emotional labor. Brick should not have to do emotional labor. Brick should hold up a wall and be left alone.
I am against the music at that specific volume. You know the volume. Loud enough that you have to raise your voice, quiet enough that it would be embarrassing to ask them to turn it down. It is engineered. There is a person somewhere who decided on that exact volume and that person made a choice, and that choice is on my bill.
I am against paying for the bartender's slow, meaningful pour. If it takes longer, it costs more. That is the logic. His contemplative relationship with the glassware is being invoiced to me. I did not hire a philosopher. I hired a man to put bourbon in a glass.
It Is in the Fridge Right Now
If you want to skip all of it, the receipt, the vibe, the ambient music designed to prevent conversation, the garnish that does nothing, the man who needs you to understand that he cares deeply about this bitters, there is a can in the fridge with my name on it. Literally. My name is on the can.
Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned. Eight milligrams. Every ingredient listed. Zero line items for anyone's energy or presence or the way the light hits the glassware at a particular angle that makes you feel like you are in a movie about people who drink expensive drinks.
While you are in there, look at the full lineup. All four of them. If you want to see what else the cast put together, the Variety Pack has one of each so you can audit the whole operation yourself. Mary's M Train Double Espresso Martini, Jane's Fancy Shmancy Pomegranate Cosmopolitan, Herb's Very Manly Peach Bellini, and mine. All accounted for. No surprises. No surcharges. No feelings on the invoice.
You can also read about all four of them over at the Meet the Cans field guide, if you want the full briefing before you commit. I recommend committing anyway. You can read later.
The grievance is filed. The receipt is in evidence. The watch on my wrist stopped in 2009 and it is still more accurate than that bar tab.
Damn right.
Lou's Damn Right I'm Old Fashioned contains 8mg hemp-derived THC per can. For adults 21 and older only. These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease. Please review the laws in your state before ordering.
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