Note: the following drinks pertain to a bar scenario. Who you are in regards to what drink you order at dinner is a whole other therapy session, though Louis at the front desk will be happy to set that up for you.
Ordering a vodka soda says you’re unfussy. If you order anything-soda water, really, you’re unfussy. (But you’re a Tito’s girl.) You’re also possibly watching calories while trying to get a bit of a buzz on, wine gives you headaches and you don’t want to be the bar’s version of Long Ass Order Girl at Starbucks.
It’s when the “splash-of” gets added in that you lose a bit of low key. Splash of cran, splash of pineapple — it’s understandable when the vodka tastes like gratuitous movie violence (well-drinks, man), but you, me and the YMCA lifeguard all know that splashes escalate quickly: fun at first, then tears.
You’re Ron Burgundy? Or, scotch drinker, you long ago learned the art of sipping alcohol as opposed to chugging it (and you think Anchorman almost ruined it.) This writer still thinks Scotch tastes like bandaids and has a long, embarrassing way to go.
Shotgun Gladyss, you’re beloved for your generosity (shots are a group activity!) but you’re quickly bemoaned when the crew declares itself unable to taste any more tequila. What about Fireball? Fine. The team will do a shot of Fireball — but just one!
It’s never just one.
Like a well-intentioned but reckless sailor, you’ve been known to kill the crew more than once. You keep going, especially because rarely does anyone ever actually blame you: it’s your party persona who did all the ordering. Everyone knows her nickname, and everyone should know better when she’s out on the town. Frickin’ Gladyss.
You weren’t going to drink tonight, and wine doesn’t really count as “drinking.”
One Piña Col-all-of-the-above-a, coming right up. And look at you! You’re having a night. You’re doing you. You’re a Mom on a Cruise being bad before 9 and you do not care who knows it. You’ve been known to: command the dance floor, the jukebox, call it a jukebox, steal maraschino cherries when the bartender isn’t looking and swear on your life that you’ll never have anything with sugar in it ever again once you wake up in the AM.
Ah, the margarita. A true crowd pleaser with one of two things to say. Either you order…
The classic: Frozen or mixed so long as there’s syrup and triple sec, you too are a little bit of a mom on a cruise — especially if ordered on weeknights with coworkers to celebrate the day ending with a big team W.
Tequila on rocks with lime: You’re just celebrating the day ending with a Y.
If it’s past 12 a.m. and you’ve just switched to beer, you’re drunk, about to ghost and are likely considering pizza. If you’re sober, you’re wing-manning. If you’re genuinely in it for the cold one, you’re Spicoli.
Actually, all “beer” says about you is you’re not gluten-free.
However, a fancy beer order is the above rule’s sole exception. Your friends call you the beerded lady — not because of your facial hair curation but because of your tendency toward flannel, the general possibility of a monocle in your periphery and a deep, intense penchant for food trucks. Your friends marvel at your ability to distinguish hops from Bushwick and barley from this year’s “new Portland,” but you have a secret: you basically just ask the bartender, “What’s good?”
Whiskey sours are for the sugar-high-tolerant who can stomach liquid gummy worms but not the taste of alcohol. I literally only know one person over the age of college who orders these and she copied her grandma, so feel free to holler at an all-of-the-above-except-this drinker in the comments.
You’ve got an old soul, a meeting, or you drink this in your grandpa’s honor. Either way, once you got used to the taste of camping in a glass you realized you just found the perfect date drink: classic, classy (points if you have a go-to gin brand), fresh breath-enabling, and it communicates the goal of unwinding without saying, “Hold my bag; I’m a going to blackout in a sec.”
If you order a Cosmo at a bar then you were underage when Sex & the City was your favorite show.
It’s about the glass, because you love a challenge. Literally no cup is more ill-designed for drinking nor better suited for spilling all over your blouse than the martini glass in which a Cosmo is served. It’s why martinis are clear in the first place. So, for the sake of your blouse alone, maybe ditch the pink drink; consider the martini.
And if you already have, well done, you’re an adult. Want a shot?
Now which one are you?
Illustrated by THE AMAZING Alessandra Olanow.