That would be the Malachi Manhattan at Jack Fry’s, one of my new favorite places in America. The story is that this used to be an Al Capone speakeasy back in the day. I don’t know if it’s true, but I choose to believe it. Man, is the food terrific here. I ate there twice on this three-day trip. Shrimp and grits, red snapper, duck confit salad, pork chop. If you’re in Louisville, you gotta go. Having said goodbye to my friends here, I felt that it wouldn’t be quite right to leave Kentucky without having had some bourbon. So I ordered the house Manhattan (“Malachi Manhattan”), the interesting twist of which seemed to be a dash of walnut liqueur. It started snowing big fat wet flakes outside, and in this cozy restaurant drinking bourbon and listening to a jazz trio seemed like the best possible place to be.
Those are Luxardo cherries, by the way. Ever had one? You need to have one. Or two. In a Manhattan.
Home tomorrow. I don’t want to tell you what disgusting thing my dog ate while I was away. The news arrived by text this evening. It is a sign that it’s time to come home. Or maybe the Apocalypse.
Oh, here’s a shot of the first meal I had in town, at the local outpost of Chuy’s, a Tex-Mex chain that is an old favorite of mine. I don’t even like margaritas that much, because they’re sugar bombs, but I find it metaphysically impossible to go to Chuy’s without having a margarita. I wish to report that my gracious host had not one drop of the foul concoction. I also wish to report that my gracious host, despite being from Louisiana originally, has been up here in northern latitudes for so long that he could not handle the heat in the green chile sauce on his enchiladas, and even had to be brought a glass of cold milk by the
nursemaid waitress! I only tell you that so that, in your charity, you can pray for him.
OK, back home to the low-carb diet and a dog with nasty breath.