It’s Veteran’s Day. If you know a vet, buy him a drink. Of course, if he’s under 21, you can’t legally buy him a round in the United States. Old enough to go into combat but not old enough to go into a bar. Which is ridiculous, if you ask me. Listen, I don’t care how old you are, if you served, I’ll buy you a drink. You just have to get past the bouncer and/or bartender. Speaking of bartenders, it’s also St. Martin’s Day. He’s one of several patron saints of bartenders and innkeepers, the other being St. Amand. There’s a cocktail named after Marty, and it’s not bad. Here’s what you do. Pour one and a half ounces of gin and the same of white rum over ice, top with an ounce of bitter lemon, then dash in some Angostura Bitters. I think you’ll find it quite refreshing and not the least bit shy.
Dear Mr. Rich,
Thanks for mentioning Veterans’ Day. I am a great fan of Modern Drunkard and of your writing in particular. As an aging retired medical educator, I am sure I’m not part of MDM’s demographic; but you reminded me of a story I’d like to share. About a year ago, before the COVID plague, I was fired from my position at a major university. Not because of sexual harassment, nor even drinking-but because I wasn’t seeing patients fast enough to make money for the School. It happens that on Veterans’ Day I drove to another city to be interviewed by an attorney: had I been terminated wrongfully because of my age, race, social status, etc.? The perfectly gorgeous young associate who gathered my information was so beautiful, I’m glad I went despite the outcome. (A couple of days later she phoned me and informed me that her firm would not be taking my case. Reasons? First, because I was not a client, she could not tell me. Second, because she was an associate and not a partner, she didn’t know. I thanked her and assured her she would have a great future in law.)
After my interview I was thirsty. Wandered into a British Pub down the street. A wiry, tattooed young man shouted unintelligible phrases as he animatedly stabbed his finger toward my chest. I finally grasped that he was saying, “Wot’s that, mite?” as he pointed towards my lapel. I responded properly that it was a “military medal.” “Woll, for luvva God, mite, Ah know that! What izzit?” So I told him it was my bronze star medal awarded for getting shot at (without effect) in Vietnam. He introduced himself as a member of his Welsch Marine Unit and ordered me a drink.
Drank all afternoon-one of the finest drunken memories of my otherwise cloistered life. He was the only human being in all my years of wearing that pin on my lapel who acknowledged what it represented.
Frank Kelly Rich, you are so right-all of humanity owes you big time. I’m convinced that Bogart was prescient when he said, “The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.” Please stay well and fight for humanity’s natural rights to imbibe and savor.
“Good whiskey never lets you lose your place” (Johnnie Lee, Cherokee Fiddle).
CFS