Dear Sir,
If you would immediately excuse my term "sir" in place of what should be "bartender" and read further I think you will understand my dissatisfaction.
You wear all black as you are told to. You muddle, mix, shake, stir, and squeeze the precise measurements for delicious cocktails as you are supposed to. You linger about, serving presumptuous appetizers and long for the clock to reach the midnight hour.
I would tip you greatly. I would consume more. But you have single handedly ruined a perfectly stirred mid-evening Manhattan by not having more pride. You let the poison seep into my drink and cloud the bourbon.
Dear sir, please stand up for all that is right, and don't put that Maraschino cherry in my cocktail.
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