Alright, who spilled the martini olives about Renfield’s Corner? It used to be quieter – a nice break from the monotony of Friday nights (er, Saturday mornings) split between Black Friar and Idle Rich. But with the out-of-towner overload that comes with Texas/OU weekend, and Arkansas vs whoever, it’s been difficult to make one’s way to the front of the line to slip the bouncer a visit from President Jackson, let alone get one’s hands on a Purple Jesus; which I recommend, if your line-jumping skills warrant you inside the venue. (Skip the Paloma’s tartness, unless your taste buds can’t tell the difference between gummy bears and sour patch kids…but if that’s your case, I’d recommend seeing a doctor before the inside of a bar.)
Uptowners (and out-of-towners) have been collecting olives lately to push Renfield’s status from secret nook to sardine tin, where you know everybody’s name, instead of the Ted Danson version. If you’re unfamiliar with Renfields, I a) don’t know what rock you’ve been living under and b) will leave it to Bing and/or Google to provide you with the address, as I tend to be somewhat impatient in regard to my right hand’s need to have a drink Velcro-ed to it at all times, though I will admit I do enjoy seeing a hefty amount of my friends in one location. Middle of the road, I know. So if it was you who spilled the perfectly good, well-packaged olives, I suppose I can forgive you over a colorful Jesus.
