Jack S.
Yelp
The missus and I were gearing up for a little pre-game action, figuring a Dirty Martini was the ticket. So, we strutted our way in, thinking we were hitting up the lobby bar at the OMNI HOTEL. Oh, how wrong we were!
We plunked our order down, only to have the barkeep hit us with the hard truth - olives and olive juice were apparently in short supply that evening, enough to keep just one of us happy.
Strike one, pal!
As if that wasn't enough, I watched the so-called bartender whip up my better half's drink without even bothering to cap the shaker. He stirred the damn thing like he was crafting a gentle lullaby instead of shaking up a real cocktail.
Strike two, and my patience was wearing thinner than a summer shirt.
Then came the grand finale of fiascos. He sloshed the concoction into a martini glass, but here's the kicker - he held onto it like it was the last piece of prime steak in a dogfight. The result? That drink was toast, warmer than a politician's smile on campaign day. And to top it off, lo and behold, a friggin' mint sprig surfaced at the glass's bottom. It was like some kind of sorry surprise left by the last poor sap who got duped into ordering a drink here.
Strike three.
We hightailed it out of that Bush League excuse for a bar, not a single inkling that we'd be in for such an amateur hour escapade. How in the world could the OMNI associate itself with such a sad excuse for a bar?
This, my friends, was a foul ball of an experience, and I ain't planning on stepping up to that plate again anytime soon.