Wired
Something I learned today: don’t order a root beer at the Nancy Whiskey pub. I went to lunch there today with coworker Matt. I ordered a Diet Coke, a solid, dependable, honest drink. Matt ordered a root beer. He would not get it. Instead, from the bar came an incredulous reply, “Root beer!?! We don’t serve root beer!” He was appropriately shamed. It served him right.
The Nancy Whiskey is a drinking man’s bar, no place for a Pennsylvanian that can’t pull his weight. Lined up along the bar were old salts whose minds were already stained with Jager shots and harder stuff than that at 10 am in the morning. Now it was 12:30 and there was no room for anything so dainty as soda squeezed from sassafras. He reluctantly took a Sprite.