NY Barfly

ACES: The New Direct Train from New York to Atlantic City. We're Feeling Lucky.

How many times have you been tempted to jaunt to Atlantic City for the weekend only to be thwarted by the transportation issue? You could take a private car, but that would use up all of the cash you plan on blowing at the roulette table. There’s always the bus; Academy is cheap and runs down 24 hours a day. The downside? Remember in Midnight Cowboy when that guy dies during the ride? He’ll be your seat mate.

Starting this weekend, getting to the roulette table just gets much easier. There will be a direct rail link from Penn Station New York to sunny Atlantic City. The ACES (Atlantic City Express Service) is the only way to go. Barfly had the pleasure to take a media preview ride and, believe us, there was not a dead guy to be seen on this train (we think we can say the same for the bus ride back, as the two gentlemen with oxygen tanks were probably just sleeping).

ACES departs from Penn Station, and the 2 hours and 40 minute ride goes by in a jiff. You won’t get antsy in the plush leather seats and, unlike the bus, your fellow passengers are people worth knowing. The best part? Why, the bar car of course. The train comes equipped with a full drink menu, with waitress service in first class and self-serve in coach. The drinks are reasonably priced; we noted bottles of Heineken for $6 and a single serve white wine for $7. Sandwiches and salads are also available, as you don’t want to get too tipsy before you hit the Casino floor and lose your rent money.

The drinks and the mingling lend an excited buzz as the train inches closer to its destination. The vibe on the bus is one of quiet, desperate anxiety. The vibe on the train is class all the way. Lounging in first class, watching the Jersey Pine Barrens go by, the murmur of the passengers talking about their posh dinner plans – it’s like a fifth grade school trip for well-heeled twenty and thirty somethings.

The ride costs $50 for a one way coach ticket and $75 for a one way first class, and tickets can be booked in advance on the train’s website. It isn’t necessarily cheap, but it is worth every single penny. Ladies and Gentlemen, be warned: once you take ACES, you will never be able to go back to other modes of transportation. Be sure to have your return ticket settled. That $300 you blew at craps will only matter if you’re down to your last $32 and have to use it for a bus ticket home. You think you have enough dignity not to weep in front of strangers? You’d be surprised.

You can check out www.acestrain.com to view schedules and reserve tickets. Barfly hit a bunch of AC hot spots on our visit (for you, gentle reader). Be sure to check in for our Libation Vacation series so you can plan your entire trip. Oh – and if you do head down this weekend- put $50 on black for us. We have to win back our utility money!

Think it's too cold to go out? Portland Harbor Hotel's Ice Bar disagrees.

While out and about this weekend, we heard many squeals from New Yorkers about the cold weather. Instead of bar hopping as usual, many headed to their favorite local haunt and camped in the corner for the entire night. Come on gang – we think you can do better than that. It’s time to stop letting the cold get you down. Just look at what’s going on in Maine. It’s cold, but they own it. The Portland Harbor Hotel is even hosting an Ice Bar – an outdoor, fully functioning drink spot made entirely of ice.

Take a look – those women are in Maine and are still able to enjoy their martinis with a smile. You don’t hear any whines about “how hard it is to walk three blocks in the weather” or “how the heat in their apartment doesn’t work”. You see what’s going on here, don’t you Ladies and Gentlemen? Portland, Maine is calling us a bunch of sissies.

And right they are, as we don’t see you budging from your cozy corner. New Yorkers are usually a feisty bunch, but when the city dips below the freezing mark, the heat goes out of the nightlife. Yes – stay there until it gets warm enough to thaw the social scene. For the more adventurous amongst you, perhaps you should skip the trip downtown next weekend and head somewhere that will appreciate your “drinks at all costs” spirit.

The ice bar runs Jan 22^nd to the 24^th, from 4:30 to 9:30 (any later than that and they’d likely be dealing with cases of mild hypothermia). If you’re in the area, it will set you back a $10 cover charge. They also have special packages for visitors. For a mere $129 you can stay over in the hotel, enjoy two free cocktails, and even have a place to park. Not too shabby.

We can’t make it this time, but we'll do the next best thing. The bar uses a gigantic ice luge to pour their drinks. Talk about a chilled martini. Inspired by their design, we’ve been constructing one on our fire-escape. Next time it is so cold out, we're gonna own it Portland style.

Libation Vacation: Low Key Philadelphia

Our Philadelphia adventure continued in classic Barfly style: hungover. We’d already jaunted through the City and cataloged its upscale options (hangover hint: the next morning’s headache feels slightly better if you refer to it as “upscale”). It was time to take in some low-key choices for the City’s sophisticated drunks.

First we decided to walk off the hangover with a visit to the Eastern State Penitentiary. One of the oldest jails in the country, it is now a National Landmark. A compelling walk-through the site accomplished two goals: 1) it got our blood flowing again 2) it reminded us where we’d end up if we ever had one too many and went “martini-wacky”.

Next on the agenda? Time for the day to really begin. Screw Continental Breakfast, we were headed to Drunk Brunch. The street outside the Eastern State Penitentiary had many attractive food options, but we settled on London Grill. How did we decide, you ask? They were the only one that had a Champagne Bottle on the side of their building, attractively festooned in Christmas lights. Some may call that shabby-chic; we called it “that looks like our type of place, we can’t wait to have a Bloody Mary”.

We took a spot at their relaxed bar, the afternoon-drinking vibe was just what we were looking for. A few folks were transfixed to the game, others were starting out with their first beer of the day. We enjoyed the sun streaming through the windows almost as much as we enjoyed our Absolut Peppar Bloody Mary. If we weren’t playing the part of tourist, we would have whittled away the entire evening at London (especially because the Bartender kept putting complimentary wings and tater tots down in front of us). The entrees were gigantic and delicious. We left this haunt feeling just as one is supposed to after a proper drunk brunch: completely stuffed and mildly delirious.

Night was falling, it was time to check out one of the most important stops on our itinerary. Some folks have to see the museums; others go for the historical statues. For us, the must see is a genuine local dive bar. We headed to Old City and ducked into Brownies Irish Pub. Gasp! You could smoke!  Or, as we should say: Gasp, Cough, Cough! According to the bartender, some Philly dives still have smoking licenses. By no means do we miss the days when you could light-up in NYC drinking dens, but there was a certain nostalgic charm to the stale, crusty air. The ash trays, the chain smoking patrons, the bartender puffing behind the bar – it felt like old times.

We grabbed a brew (in true Philly fashion, they had an excellent selection of at least a dozen exotic drafts) and decided that we’d truly dive it up. We headed for the touch-screen video game in the corner. If you think that playing NYC’s Erotic Photo hunt is a scandalous experience, well, you’ve never been to Brownies. Guarantee you’ll blush. From what? Let’s just say that smoking's got nothing to do with it.

A few rounds later, and we were winding down. It was getting late, but we had to make one more stop as it was our last night in Philly. Why not end our trip with a visit to the oldest bar in town? We headed back to Center City, and stopped by McGillin’s Olde Ale House for a final drink (or four). Tucked away on an almost invisible street, they have been pouring pints since 1860. You know it has to be genuine – they spell old with an e.

The bar was a perfect way to end our trip. It felt comfortable, lived in. If not by Ben Franklin himself, then by the dozens of friendly locals and laid-back tourists that clearly flock here night after night. We ordered a house brew (McGillin's Genuine Lager) and scored a spot by the roaring fireplace. Having finally digested Drunk Brunch, we feasted on some Tex-Mex fries and Poppers. It might have been the beer, it might have been the fire, but this place left us warm inside.  If McGillin’s is Philadelphia, then we’ll definitely be back soon. Not to mention those fries were awesome!

Libation Vacation: City Food Tours in Philadelphia (don't worry, there's beer involved!)

On our recent nightlife vacation in Philadelphia, we had to find activities to fill the day (well, at least the early evening). We scouted for an event that would fulfill our two goals: 1) it had to be more dynamic than the typical tourist attraction (the Philadelphia Museum is great and all, but how many Monet’s can one look at before being declared clinically insane?) 2) it had to include at least one sip of something alcoholic. We stumbled across City Food Tours. The group runs walking tours through the city’s historic neighborhoods to showcase local producers, artisans, and (score!) brewers.

We booked a spot on the Artisanal Beer, Cheese, and Prosciutto Tasting Tour. We considered trying to tag along solely for the beer section, but the local cheese shop was too quaint to pass up. We gathered with our small group in the back of the store, the intimate setting quickly led to a chummy gaggle of strangers. It was a completely relaxed way to spend an afternoon. Our charming hosts took us through the process of cheese making (i.e. they held up pictures of cows and goats) and led a tasting of 4 varieties of cheese and a few cured meats. At times, their jokes were a tad cheesy (get it?!) but it fit the friendly mood perfectly.

We moved on to Triumph Brewing Company – a quick walk away. We took a peek at the vats of beer (glorious!). The hosts went through the different brews and detailed the steps that Triumph goes through to get us drunk (we applaud them). Our favorite part of the tour left us in a private dining room with 8 types of beer spread out in front of us. Our only complaint? The moment that we sat down and our host said “OK everyone, don’t drink the beer yet!”

Our patience (as hard as it was) paid off, we came away learning something about hops, the brewing process, and the differences in the milieu of brew spread before us. The tasting started, and after a few sips of delectable beer we decided that this tour 1) trumped touristy trips to the museum and 2) was the perfect way to spend the afternoon (well, early evening).

If you aren’t headed to Philly any time soon, they also offer tours in New York. Lushes that we are, we recommend the Upper West Side Chocolates, Desserts, and Wine Tour. Check out the sure to be delicious info here.

Libation Vacation: Upscale Philadelphia

We started our trip to Philly determined to sniff out some New York worthy haunts. Our only knowledge of the city’s nightlife comes from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. We were on vacation – we didn’t want to start by slumming it in the main character’s bar (even if Danny DeVito was hiding in a bathroom stall). Surely the city had some glitzy nightlife to offer. We would start with a Martini, and save drinking in the gutter for later in the week.

Luckily, we didn’t have to look far. Our room was on the 19^th floor of the luscious Loews Hotel. We barely made it upstairs to check out the view of surrounding Center City. We were diverted by the trend-ified bar in the hotel’s lobby. The City sadly lacks a W Hotel (for now), but by the time our martini arrived we stopped dreaming of alphabet-named lodgings. We perched on the barstool at SoleFood and were impressed by the views of pretty people throughout the room. It was like we hadn’t even left our beloved city – the lighting, the crowd, the drink – we must be only a few subway stops short of downtown. The only difference? The price. Judging by the Loews (and later confirmed elsewhere) the general equation of upscale Philadelphia is New York minus four dollars.

We quickly remembered that there was an entire city to explore. We had to pry ourselves from that stool (the oysters and delicious pulled pork sliders really wanted us to stay). It was off to the truly exotic, the type of place that we so look forward to trying while on holiday: a wine bar. We parked ourselves in a warmly-lit Vinoteria just a few blocks away in Center City. Our preconceptions of the city were quickly thrown out the window: we walked there and were not harassed, mugged or sold into human slavery.

And quite the walk it was. Tria Cafe finds itself on a lovely West Village-esque corner. Trees line the block and a friendly hum emanates from the bar’s outdoor tables. They bill themselves as a wine, cheese, and beer cafe. We enjoyed a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and then engaged in one of our favorite activities: swilling sparkling rose while gorging on delectable cheese (The equation New York -$4 = more wine for us). Tria is upscale in its offerings, but the crowd was relaxed and without a drop of pretension. If we ever decided to live in Philly, this would become our second home.

Libation Vacation: Casino of the Wind at Mohegan Sun

"On the trail of life, when you go up remember you come down. When you come down, always remember that you go up again." As we stood at grand opening of the Casino of the Wind at Mohegan Sun in Uncasville, CT we learned that this is what the Mohegan tribe believes. Perhaps this was a gambling fable? By the vacant stares of those at crap tables and slot machines around us it seemed a long way up.

We brought our attention back to our guide. Who was this Guido wearing a feather necklace? “Directive Chief,” he claimed while eyeing the game on the TV in the casino's illustrious poker room and mumbling under his breath. Beside him was the "Medicine Woman", clad in Native American booties and a head dress. We wondered how far these crafty Indians could take the gambling speak. Native American costumes don't typically come with a Coach bag, do they? She must be up these days.

"See the tiny spots on the trail" she told us. “Mohegans believe we are just small dots in comparison to this big life."

Is that how we lost so much money? Our currency seemed so small in comparison to Casino of the Wind's vast proportions.

We had an hour to kill before the unveiling of the new signature cocktail: The Windfall. We watched guests gamble away their savings and wondered if the trail of life was printed on the back of those poker chips or between the lines of the slot machines. Was that the Chief scribbling on a scorecard, still mumbling? My my, remember that when you are down you always go up Chief.

From there we made our way over to Leffingwell's Martini Bar to finally sample the exclusive cocktail Windfall.  Krug Gran Cuvee Brut Champagne, Hennessy, Grand Marnier, Chambord and Pomegranate juice garnished with a diamond and pink sapphire ring from Tiffany's. Priced at $6,200 we were glad to see the Reservation decided to mock the economy. What great payback for those smallpox blankets.

Once we'd had enough of laughing in the face of the recession (take that General Custer!) with frivolous diamonds we made our way over to the Mohegan's venue The Wolves Den. We wanted to see the Band from TV perform . As we walked in, photographers shot past us to catch a glimpse of the band members (or to appropriately play into the name 'Wolves Den'). 

Members Greg Grunberg (Heroes), James Denton (Desperate Housewives), Bob Guiney from a previous season of the Bachelor, Adrian Pasdar (Heroes), James Kyson Lee (Heroes),and Rebecca Budig (All My Children) sang and danced around to covers of middle-aged favorites. Our first instinct was to hold our cocktail napkins high with messages such as 'Don't worry. When you are down on the trail of life, you always come up again!' When we discovered the Band from TV plays to benefit charity, we decided it best to make our way out, cocktail napkins neatly left on our tables. At least they weren't sipping diamonds to mock the economy or the trail of life. They were just ignorantly mocking themselves.

Spent from so much action along the trail of life we decided to make a brief appearance at the after party, a 'red carpet' event at Ultra 88, the casino's nightclub. A quick walk down the red carpet (about the size of the doormat that adorns our quaint NYC apartment), an accidental elbow in the ribs by one of the unforgiving photographers and a breeze past Lindsay Price and other miscellaneous characters we encountered along the trail we decided to retire ourselves for the night and be impossibly fresh for the following day's champagne brunch.

Review – The New Mohegan Sun – Casino of the Wind

The commute to Mohegan Sun in CT – 1 olive - It was briefly entertaining to get drunk at Penn Station's Houlihan’s when the Amtrak was delayed. Horrifying however to realize the train was a three hour ride to the casino. Prepare to pass the time drinking Amtrak booze and try not to puke in the cab from the station to the reservation.

The paid actors who run the casino, err, we mean Mohegans - 3 olives - We love this sort of Disney World effect of costumed characters. It might have been more effective if they took it down a notch. Native Americans booties= no no.

The trail of life - 3 olives- We're sure we will remember that there's always a way up the next time we are surviving a wicked hangover. Thank you Mohegan Sun. Champagne brunch + 3 hour train ride = an even bigger no-no than those booties.

Littlefly Heads to the Hamptons

The big yellow smiley face on the side of the Oceanside Beach Resort greeted us in Montauk. We almost half smiled in amusement. Then we realized that it was probably mocking us. "Silly Manhattanites," it said. Coming here to Montauk for a summer weekend. So cliché."

Cliché or not, Barfly was out to discover the appeal of this well known summer spot. What had trendy socialites, celebs, yuppie families and of course your regular group of keg drinking meatheads coming here weekend after weekend?

We sneered at the smiley face and made our way into our rooms to begin research. Yes, there was a moth bigger than us on the ceiling and yes, the bathroom shower was adorned with a paper mat decorated with 70s style silhouettes of couples romancing on the beach. The room might be lacking, but the bottom line was we had a balcony on which we could smoke, watch, and make fun of the other people at the hotel. So far, we were loving Montauk.

So off we were to check out the view from our balcony. Overlooking the backyard, it was like a fairytale. Much unlike Barfly's usual habitat. As we inhaled and listened to the sound of the crashing ocean waves we suddenly heard 'Chirp chirp'. We jumped. Up above us on our balcony was a bird's nest. Two chicks stumbled about as they learned to fly. How poetic, we thought. The smile almost came out. When a wild bunny hopped by in the yard we were forced to exit and head into town before we developed a heart.

We landed at the Crabby Cowboy, a seafood spot that marries the love of old west with the love of the lobster bake. Since we always try to marry our love of the bar with our love of mayhem we stopped first for martinis and asked if we could sip them on the decorative haystacks. It would be fun to jump off of them onto unknowing patrons as they entered the venue. We couldn’t, so we headed into the back for a smoke and perhaps struck gold. There was an outdoor party, music and fireworks. This would be the key to our research.

However, the crowd that wandered in was less then desirable. Hamptons people with no real interests other than pretending to have engaging interests. 2 martinis and several celebrity sightings later, we were disgusted to see that people live up to the Montauk stereotypes. The birds must have been a fluke after all.

Celebrities at a party in the Hamptons ...pshaww. We proceeded to do a last lap around. What did we find but David Schwimmer sitting on one of the banned haystacks and sipping a martini. In true Hampton’s style, Ross from Friends got more respect than we did. When we saw him leap off of it and pounce onto a party go-er we had simply had enough – that was our idea damn-it.

It was clearly time to go…but not before drunkenly shouting out of the taxi to the Strokes’ guitarist. Someone needed to tell him to please feed his model girlfriend a hamburger before she withered away.

We awoke the next morning with our martini headache and decided to head back to our city. Just when we thought we proved that there was nothing to this Hamptons nonsense, nature once again confronted us with something unexpected. When we opened our door, there was a trio of baby reindeer gracefully crossing the street. We were heartened – they didn’t look like celebrity reindeer. Remembering the bitter-disappointment of the haystack, we stayed true to our form. Making no mention of the breathtaking sight, we were sure to give two little 7-year-old Hamptonites playing in the hotel pool the finger. They clearly were snobs, just like the rest of them.

As we headed to the jitney, we pondered our conclusions. What was the appeal of Montauk? Fake people wearing expensive clothes, rubbing elbows with expensive people with fake interests living in a ridiculous fairy-tale land of bunnies, Bambi and inspiring chicks learning to fly. It is unfortunate – the nature almost compensated for the superficial facade. As we headed west on the bus – it hit us. With all that fake-ness and all that money in one place– those animals must have been animatronic.

Libation Vacation: Staten Island Pool Party

We made our way up through the winding Staten Island roads and gawked at the “elite” neighborhood's homes. They were all piled on top of one another. We realized that Staten Island real estate is not about property...it's about being the gaudiest house on the block. Due to the line of Altimas, Jeeps and Jettas pumping bass and making their way up the road ahead, we could see the island was also about the annual pool party we were on the way to.

We arrived and went into the yard. All of the locals were equipped with a drink, their swimming trunks and mouths full of bad language..."So I f**in told him get the f*ck out of here before I break your face!" The other thing they all had in their mouths? Gum. Did you think cows were not bred in the boroughs? Think again.

We gave a friendly smile to the uninvited neighbors who spied on us out their window. “The people under the stairs" we like to call them - due to the daunting vines climbing up their home and the rickety old rocker on their porch. They responded to our sneers by closing their shades. Well adieu to them. If they would just pop in some bubbleicious and pop out some F bombs – they would have surely been invited.

Before deciding to aid in setting up the pig that was to feed us, we mixed ourselves a pool party cocktail and reminisced about the last year's attempt at the roast. Everyone forgot poor Porky was turning over the flames and he set fire.  We can attribute that to the liquor fountain that was spewing a purple magic potion.  We barely noticed at 2am when we were gnawing on charred pork...it was actually quite delicious once we rinsed it off in the pool.

This year, the pig was hoisted and everyone hopped in the pool for a friendly game of Staten Island style Marco Polo. This is when the person seeking holds your head under water if they find you.  Not to worry, the locals always know when it's "panic time" and to let you up for air. It's all in how frantic the bubbles seem they say.

A few hours, and 2 rounds of CPR later – the pig was ready. As a clever jest, someone had stuffed a can of Budweiser in the swine’s mouth – making it seem as though the pig was enjoying a last beer before being devoured. We started to chuckle, but everyone at the party didn’t think this was funny. They got out the knives, stared in awe at the beast and exclaimed through pops of gum:

“Yo – look at that goddamn pig - he’s f*ckin drunk – how f*ckin awesome is that!”

Libation Vacation: The Jersey Shore on a Drunken Budget

Littlefly – ever full of abundant advice (i.e. Cosmos) – takes us on vacation:

Every summer we try to find ways to escape the city. Some head to the Hamptons, fancy CT homes, or perhaps cruise ships.

The less wealthy may go for a different option…The Jersey Shore. Hardly the sophisticate’s choice you say? Well then you just don’t know how to do it right.

Luckily, we are so wealthy in spirit that we will show you how. Here are some tips to enjoy your jersey shore getaway on a sophisticate’s budget (by this we mean the non-existent budget your drunk self imagines to be bottomless night after night):

Location: Tiki Bar, Point Pleasant:

1. Laugh at the budget…you won’t be wanting just one of those $12.00 20oz screwdrivers. When it comes down to it, you won’t be wanting just five either.


2. Pack plenty of water. One glance around and you’ll know why. All the unknowing beach sluts are passed out in the sand with their mouths open - they probably should have skipped that last pina colada. The sun is cooking them and they are on their way to major cotton mouth.  Rehydrate and gear up so you can go for round two when you have to get out of the sun due to blistering.


3. Take a dip. On your walk to the water, you will drunkenly kick sand onto sun-worshipers but that’s okay. Two fresh squeezed OJ screwdrivers and you won’t even realize the guidos are actually yelling at you when they shout “Hey! Douchebag watch who you kick sand on or I’ll punch you in the mouth!”


4. Don’t try to swim. You’ll drown.


5. Accept the fact that the unattractive bartenders have made a career of this. Tip them well because they mix drinks how us sophisticates like them - strong enough to not feel it when the guido punches you in the mouth.


6. Sober up before drunk driving back to your friend’s beach house. 6 fried oreos, a boardwalk “specialty”, should do the trick. During the drive, try to forget about the post Oreo/sun/vodka chest pains. Nothing ruins a trip to the beach like your demand to be rushed to the hospital in the midst of your state of drunken paranoia.

 

LittleFly goes South and Whistles Dixie (that means does shots, right?)

On our trip to Nashville, TN we tried hard to make the most of our Southern experience. As far as we could tell, a “southern experience” consists of drinking heavily while murmuring unspeakable things about the “Yankee” in the room. We decided to visit the Jack Daniels distillery located about an hour outside of Nashville in Lynchburg to fulfill the first half. The second? Well, we hoped they wouldn’t notice our carpet bag and Bronx Bombers jersey while on the tour. No way were we any match for their pitchforks. . . .

Ahhh Jack, we’ve spent so many nights dreaming of your Frock coat and broad brimmed hat. Is this the cuckoo costume of a loon with Little Man’s syndrome or a regal uniform of a king with a taste for fine whiskey and vision of success?

At 5’2” it could have been both for Mr. Jack Daniel - the tour promised to help sort it out. Not only would we obtain a behind the scenes at how our favorite bottle of debauchery is made, but apparently we would get a peek inside the life of the man that started it. As it became increasingly clear throughout the afternoon it didn’t matter what his costume meant. For, we found that Jack Daniels was one of the original American Hustlers. Bravo Jack, or shall we say…fo’ shizzle.

Our tour guide arrived to tell us Mr. Daniel’s drunken tale. We couldn’t understand his Southern drawl…or was that the effects of liver disease? Either way, we supposed that Jack would be proud. We know that we were especially impressed by his age, overalls, and grey hair peeping out of his ears. Even though he had a kink in his step, we could clearly see what drove him forward: his will to drink.

Listening hard, we gathered the story of Jack Daniel through his Southern twang/hepatitis. We will translate it so that you Northerners can understand. Jack was one of thirteen in a Scottish-Welsh family, brought into the winning world of whiskey at 10 and running a distillery by 16.  In true hustla fashion, Jack disappeared at age 21. Rumor has it he went off to the city. Our main man returned some time later dressed in a frock coat and a fancy hat. Bling fuc*ing bling. He wore variations of this infamous combination every day for the rest of his life.

This wasn’t no bullsh** distillery, neither.  Frowning upon the namby-pamby whiskey making of the time, Jack chose to produce his drink in only the finest way possible. Fu*k ‘dat other shit, ya know? Being the chill motherfu*ka that he was, he used a process known as “mellowing” -  whiskey seeps through packed charcoal for 10 days to give it that smoky flavor we strive to swig.  His business survived through the Civil War and was registered with the U.S. government in 1866. This makes it the oldest registered distillery in the country. Word.

In time Jack Daniel was a very wealthy man and able to fulfill his lifelong dream of buying more identical frock coats and fancy hats. Not to mention fuc*in hos.

As we rode through the land on a pimped out golf cart (we’re not sure of the southern word for “rode” that means ‘ominously wavered to the left and right as the tour guide kept turning his head to narrate to us’) we learned that our Jack was a ladies man…macking it to several women at once. He didn’t marry any singly of them. He may have had 99 problems but a bitch wasn’t one.

As the tale of Jack finished up, we arrived outside a room of fermenting barrels.  The tour guide was mumbling something about dry blah blah – we didn’t care – we were too busy getting ready to taste Jack on his own turf, not to mention getting high off the fumes. We crept up to the room with the barrels and, what – it just dawned on us. Did he say dry county? Like one that can’t serve alcohol!

The guide said something to the effect of “I’ll be right back” and disappeared behind a wall. Shocked and appalled, clearly misled, we could only envy his drunkenness. Upon his return he laughed, revealing a toothless smile, his hands dripping wet. He then ran up to everyone forcing them to smell his hands…he had stuck his hand in a barrel and come back to taunt us with the sweet smell of whiskey. Some of the people tried to lick his fingers.

The yokel, playing games with us - this was worse than those piggy noises from Deliverance.

We continued our tour with long faces. Our frowns turned out to be appropriate as we moved into the final stages of whiskey making and the end of Jack’s biography. Solemnly the drunkard mumbled that one day Jack had trouble accessing his riches stored in a safe. Angry and driven by greed, he kicked the safe and developed gangrene in his toe. This was the reason for his death in 1911. We quietly rode up to his grave where there sat two empty chairs…apparently one for each girlfriend he had at the time. A pimp until the very end Jack was. Holla.

Last shop – the gift shop.  They mockingly offered us lemonade to complete the tour. In the spirit of Jack we said F*** this that and purchased airplane bottles of whiskey to crack open on the ride back to Nashville…who was a hustlin’ nigga now?

Ratings – Jack Daniel’s Distillery – Lynchburg, VA

Drunk tour guide - 3 olives - It seemed like he knew what he was talking about . .uh.. .did he just drive our tour caddy into a ditch?...

Tour of the whiskey making process - 3 olives – It was “educational” enough to make us believe we cared why we ended up sleeping on the sidewalk after nights composed of Jack Daniels.

Not serving Jack Daniels on the tour - 0 olives – You think that sh** gettin olives?How bout we bust a pitchfork on your ass? There’s some fuc*in olives for ya.

A Yankee retelling the story of a great Southern drunkard – 4 olives – We think we did a pretty good job. We just can’t figure out a way to say “ya’ll” that isn’t “yous guys”.