"Old man, you give those dogs another piece of my food, I'm gonna kick ya till you're dead."

All my talk of bourbon left me in want of a good Manhattan cocktail -- the good Manhattan I was denied on Saturday when a Park Slope bartender served me up an unfortunate shaken concoction of bourbon and sweet vermouth. So last night my roommate Libby and I dipped into the good stuff at home -- Hudson Valley Baby Bourbon -- and polished off the tiny bottle while watching streamed copies on her laptop of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (how apropos for Easter, yes?) and Moonstruck from a Chinese website.

When done properly a Manhattan is like a smoky elixir, dark and complex as it swirls around the glass, and I made sure to add the bitters. Libby agreed with me that a well made Manhattan is hard to come by in the city (unless you got the big bucks to frequent such places as Death & Company, Milk and Honey, or Pegu Club). So we relished the three drinks that each of us had, which probably explains why my head hurts a little this morning.