I was sixteen when I had my first drink in a restaurant.
It was in Miami, where I was visiting the Southern Branch of Family d’Elisson. My Uncle Phil took me out to lunch at a place called the Mousetrap. In retrospect, I have no idea how I remember the name.
The waitress came to take our order, and for some completely unknown reason, I asked for a martini. Not that I expected to get it...I just up and asked for it.
And the waitress fuckin’ brought it.
A double. On the rocks.
I gulped that sonofabitch down. No problem - that was easy. Finding my steak on the plate afterwards - now, that was the tricky part.
I’m sure Phil was quietly laughing his ass off the entire way home.
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