West Michigan is overflowing with trendy new breweries, but lest we forget the old fashioned watering hole. From where to score the best Happy Hour deals to the budding Cocktail Renaissance, this special guide is all about the local pubs and taverns. Because lists are fun, here’s a roundup of some must-visit places to get a good cocktail.
If you’re familiar with the television cooking show Iron Chef, then you’re at least familiar with the general premise of the Grand Rapids Cocktail Guild’s Iron Bartender competition. It’s pretty simple: Bring in some talented culinary professionals, throw some surprise ingredients at them and see the creative ways they use said ingredients to create something delectable.
They don’t make ‘em like they used to. That’s how the saying goes, anyway. And at Nick Fink’s, the oldest bar in Grand Rapids, they’re absolutely fine with that adage. While developers are continually constructing flashy, new breweries and trendy pubs across the state, other more ripened watering holes hang their hats on heritage.
Enjoy San Chez' seasonal cocktail, the Limonana. Made with 1¼ oz. lemongrass gin, 1¼ oz. fresh honeydew melon juice and ¾ oz. Cointreau and paired with a piece of Serrano ham anchored with a grape — it's the perfect sweet and salty drink.
Ho, dear reader! Huddle close to this page terminus while I sit at The Meanwhile Bar, suckling at a treat of my own concoction: The Ghost Puncher. The origin of this drink drives from a reference of irreverence against the famous non-alcoholic infusion, The Arnold Palmer.
Speak never, friends and loyal readers (both of you), that I’ve not drank within an establishment dubbed by a designation of hat, lest they be put asunder. The fallacious malalignment could not be further from its proper port of purpose.
I command these words to paper with hand atremble. Found am I, perched ad precarium aboard a barstool in a veritable Elysian Field of fine quaff. For certainly, no concoction of the wrangled Terra could formulate such fine a philter as that which I now quaff: The Dry Agent.
I awake, supine, I surmise, seeing only a field of stars. It's cold as bones, twice as wan, snow banking all aside me like tucked bedsheets. The last thing I remember is sinking in a bright, green sea bore in a fishbowl. Now, the inebriate warmth of those tropic waters wash away by wintery waves.
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