I was barhopping with some new friends in downtown Minneapolis the other night and it was getting late. We made it to the final bar just as they announced last call. Perfect timing we thought as we sauntered up to the bar to order our drinks. I ordered a local brew, one friend ordered the same, another ordered a vodka and cran, and my last friend ordered a mojito. A fucking mojito. At last call. Needless to say, the bartender wasn’t too happy about it. She had to unwrap her mixers, cut up a few limes, pull some fresh mint, and find her muddler in the back. She still made his drink, and she made it strong, and she made it right. But she was scolding him and muttering under her breath the entire time she was making it. I think he learned his lesson. I doubt that he’ll be ordering a mojito at last call anytime soon.
Critically Rated at 6/17
Written, Rated, and Reviewed by Brendan H. Young