Emotionally charged post alert: Why I'm obsessed with Moscow Mules
Oh no. Not another emotionally charged rant...
Somewhere, sometime last year I met Faith. Well, her name's not Faith but we'll call her that because her name's Arabic and that's the closest you can get to an English equivalent. Just like everything else this year, things were fine until they weren't and on March 8, my last day out before Italy's nationwide house arrest, Faith and I had Moroccan food for dinner and then we went to the La Ménagère, a fancy-schmancy cocktail lounge in central Florence, for drinks.
I'd never really cared for Moscow Mules. In fact, I'm fairly convinced I'd never ordered a Moscow Mule before except for that one time at a car show (because it was free), but for some reason, at La Ménagère that night, on a whim, I ordered one. No reason. I just did. And Faith doesn't drink, so I had a Moscow Mule and then another one because I felt duty-bound to somehow counter balance her double green tea.
When pubs and bars opened up again a few months later, a Moscow Mule became my natural go-to option, simply because when you're forced to stay home, drinking beer is easy, making your own cocktail isn't. I never saw Faith again, C19 restrictions saw to that, because by the time borders were open again, she went straight back home to a different continent and I buggered off to Monaco to look at cars I can't afford.
I never planned to share personal stuff like this on FT, but I had a Moscow Mule (plural, actually) earlier today and felt like sharing. Cheers.
Cheers, fellow tribers