In the wake of Sex and the City, and in the dawn of the Mojito, came the Mixologist - but don’t call him that, because, well- he just wants to make great cocktails. Ask him for his opinion however, and you will get a fancy gold monogrammed business card with a funky picture of a bar tool on it and a tab of 5K tacked on for the simplest advice.
This was a time of “cocktail opulence”. A “There Will be Blood and Sand” time, if you will, full of make shift suspenders, old fashioned hair gel, and moustaches that crept up as high as the egos that followed. We took ourselves very seriously, and if the hand that cracked the ice remained red, raw and frozen, well - it was a just a sign that our job was well done. We took instruction from the creme de la creme, how must one stir a cocktail, never shake with juice, which bitters are in season, and what the correct time to flame an orange zest might be. All the etiquette and more to help us serve the finest Absinthe in Switzerland to the oldest old fashion in old town Chicago. We were onto something here, a movement that finally let us contemplate, love, and understand what the art of the barkeep was really about...If it wasn’t for that incessant customer over there who’s been complaining to get his drink now for over an hour..
See that was the thing about the Fitzgerald Philosophy. There was a time and a place to be golden. And by God, this wasn’t it.