A week or so ago, I asked a young swaggery dude behind the bar to make me a favorite drink of his.
He winked and rather showily atomized absinthe in an Old Fashioned glass…and then added rye, Peychaud’s bitters, and simple syrup to a shaking tin. He agitated it vigorously with that affected faraway look, strained the pink-ed frothy decoction into the glass, plunked in a day-glo maraschino cherry, and slid it across the bar.
“That,” said he, “is a Sazerac.”
