My chica and I have this hilarious The Honeymooners sketch that goes like this: I invite her to go eat with me somewhere; she refuses. A friend of our enthuses about a restaurant; my chica gets mad at me for not taking her there. I tell her I offered before, but she refused my offer then; now, she now wants to go. One of these days, Alice…HA!
Anyoo, that's what happened with Juliette Kitchen+Bar, that fine establishment just off the 73 in Newport Beach. We weren't able to have a full meal there when I finally took her, so we stuck with what mattered: booze. She had the Mexican Firing Squad, a tart flight of fancy; I had the fabulous Cocktel de la Louisiane.
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It sounds like a cliché in a glass: Rittenhouse rye, Contratto Rosso, Benedictine, Peychaud's bitters, and Vieux Pontarlier absinthe. But there is nothing hackneyed about it: think of it as a particularly fragrant Manhattan, with the Benedictine wrestling down the rye, only to get a chair to the back by the Vieux Pontarlier. And then, out of nowhere, the Contratto vermouth makes an appearance and steals the show with a flash of zing. I could've drunk three of these–but there was more restaurants for me to invite my woman to, for her to reject, for her to hear about…and so forth. Ah, married life…
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