It happened a few years ago, but I still remember it clearly. I was seated at a white-tablecloth fine-dining restaurant in Brooklyn, the now-shuttered Clover Hill. In need of a break from booze, I ordered a nonalcoholic cocktail. After the server recited the drink’s composition — beet, oolong tea, tonka bean and a few other carefully articulated ingredients — I ordered it.
Moments later, a rocks glass arrived holding an oversize ice cube that occupied the bulk of the vessel. At best, there was room for three ounces of liquid splashing around. I looked at my husband in disbelief. I’ve consumed plenty ...
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