The parisette.
You walk into a neighborhood bar. It’s early in the evening. People are chattering quietly at their tables, and a band is setting up on the corner stage. You’re dressed well and smell terrific.
You have a seat at the bar. Attractive individuals of the opposite gender are sitting on either side. You notice one of them is a writer for a glossy local magazine. She glances over at you and smiles. You nod. The bartender is washing out a glass with a rag.
“Good evening, sir,” he says, looking up with a smile. “What is a sharp-dressed fellow like yourself drinking this evening? Perhaps a Manhattan?”
You chuckle. “No, no, thanks. Tonight I believe I’ll have a parisette.”
A nervous look crosses the bartender’s face. “Well, ah, I’ll have to admit — you’ve stumped me on that one,” he says. “Could you remind me what’s in a parisette again?”
Your face flushes to a bright red. You look around, and then learn forward anxiously. “Grenadine and milk,” you whisper.
