Johnny Case in Wonderland . . . hopelessly adrift in popular culture

The other night I got into a fight with a server at a posh new local bar.  Well, not really a fight, because I’m unceasingly civil and polite, but it was clearly a disagreement.  I was there at happy hour, during which all mixed drinks are $6 instead of the normal $11 (which is usurious in a town like Bedford Falls).  I ordered an Old Overholt Manhattan.  Or three.  Mother’s milk.  When the bill came all my drinks were listed as $11 each and I pointed out to the server that they’d all been ordered during happy hour.  Here’s a verbatim transcript of what followed:

Her: Well, yours are full price because you substituted rye for bourbon.

Me: That’s not a substitution.  Manhattans are supposed to be made with rye. 

Her: No, they’re made with bourbon.

Me: No, they’re made with bourbon either by request or at places that don’t carry rye, but they’re supposed to be made with rye.

Her: Well, I don’t want to disagree with the customer, but you’re wrong.

Me: [Keeping my cool but seething on the inside] So, what you’re telling me is that because I had Old Overholt Manhattans, I have to pay $11 each, but had I gone with the Maker’s Manhattans that are apparently your house Manhattans they only would have been $6 each, even though Maker’s Mark is more expensive whiskey?

Her: Yes!

Me: So what you’re saying is a substitution, which was actually me asking you to pour me cheaper liquor, is going to cost almost twice as much money?

Her: Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes.

Me:  Okay, that’s fine.

I paid my bill and that’s that.  I won’t be back any time soon.  There’s nothing I hate more than pretentious upscale places that don’t know what they’re on about.  I have no issue with Maker’s Manhattans; if I go into a place that doesn’t have rye, it’s my go-to drink.  I freakin’ love Maker’s Mark.  But if a bar has rye, that should be what they normally make their Manhattans with.  Or, if a place really cares about satisfying its customers, it will offer either rye or bourbon Manhattans for the same price.  That’s not a novel idea.  And in any case, don’t put rum in my margarita and tell me it’s still a margarita.  The next night I went to the Whitehouse-Crawford, whose regular bartender Gabriel is a magician who makes as good a Manhattan as I’ve ever had—there’s a lot of care and craft that goes into his drinks—and ordered one or four, for which they charged me $8 each and all was right in the world again.