C'mon! Drink up!
Cancer, crying and cocktails. Crafting friendships at the bottom of a glass.
The nondescript bar was right at the corner of a triangular spit of land, surrounded on all sides by cars: an island of cocktails on an island of cocktails. Little Branch in the West Village has the tastiest drinks downtown and we were there because my cousin needed a distraction.
“They customize their drinks to your mood,” I said.
“I don’t want the bar to implode on my account,” she replied.
Inside, bartenders swished, clinked and muddled while we studied the menu. The names and descriptions of each cocktail rambled like a list of songs on a mix tape, the few ingredients we recognized encouraging us to read on. But waiting for us at the bottom of the list, in block print, was our cue to leave: Cash Only. And so, moments after entering the bar we were back outside, our eyes re-adjusting to the light.
Across the street a glowing sign for an Irish pub beckoned. The familiar lettering promised straightforward beers on tap and tabs that we could open and close. I p…
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