Moscow Mule

So we're driving home from dinner at Troeg's Brewery on Saturday evening and Curly says, "Would you guys like to stop for a Moscow Mule?"  Bear and I look at each other, and neither of us knowing what a Moscow Mule is, of course say, "Sure, we'd love one."  "Where is this fine establishment?" I ask.  "Right in the neighborhood, at the Paxtang Grill." Curly replies.  So we're off!

We arrive, Curly advances into the bar proper, a scene reminiscent of the oft repeated opening of "Cheers" ensues.  But instead of a rousing chorus of, "Norm!", we're instead greeted to welcoming cheers of, "Curly!"  Curly did admit that he'd been in the Grill a few times before, but just for dinner.

Upon ordering the already mentioned beverages, the barmaid turns deadly serious.  "I need your ID's!"  Thinking this is about legal drinking age or some such policy I gleefully comply as I seldom get carded anymore.  Unfortunately Bear has been working one of Stew's old tricks all day, "I left my wallet at the house."  "But come on, look at me, I'm really 28."  But the barmaid isn't interested in deducing our legal status, she wants to hold our government issued's as collateral against the fancy copper cups that the Mules are served in.

After pleading promises and issuance of threats, drinks were distributed.  The barmaid even came around the bar to check on us, and threaten Bear again.  She mentioned that she would stick her foot up Bear's hiney if he even attempted to make off with said cup.  I pointed out that she was obviously serious since she was wearing a thigh high leg splint with boot.  "Holy cow!" said Curly, "She broke it off in the last guy!"

I found the Moscow Mule to be very cold and refreshing.  Just what I needed after a bumpy voyage in the backseat of Curly's ride. Here's a recipe:

Very few fish were gently admired and released in the prelude to this grand mixological experience.