My first encounter with Jägermeister was a summer in college, working as a shot girl at a bar called Coconuts. Technically, Coconuts was a seafood restaurant in Dewey Beach, Delaware that transformed into a dark and dank dance hall on weekend nights. My job was to fill a spongy tray with test tubes of the holy trinity of college booze—Jäger, Goldschlager, and Sambuca—and carry it around the room selling shots to sweaty, already-drunk patrons.
I hated the taste of Jägermeister, a punishment to the esophagus. And I haven’t had it since.
Comments
Post a Comment