I paid my first visit to Death & Co., the cocktailians' hideout in Manhattan's East Village, some six months ago. At the time, I sat next to two attractive young women who were quite enthusiastic in their love of the place and their love of cocktails.
Well, that they love the place is no longer in question. I don't get to Death & Co. that frequently, because I live in Brooklyn, and only find myself near Avenue A every month or so. But I did find time to visit recently. And who did I find next to me? Those same gals, still knocking 'em back with avidity and gusto. I was told they visit about three times a week. That's loyalty.
They had not lost their buoyancy, or need to dart outside for a smoke every half hour or so, or their thirst for frothy drinks. Everything in front of them was sudsy, Pink Ladies and the like. When debating what their final drink of the night should be, I made a few unshaken suggestions, but was corrected by the wise bartender. "No," he said, "These are creamy girls." So they were. And they stayed creamy until closing time.
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