Gone to the Dogs

There's a rather lame-ass bar near where I live in Brooklyn. Their stock is limited, which is probably a good thing, since there aren't many drinks in the bartenders' memory bank. But people still go there because there's a really good Mexican restaurant on the second floor of the building.

It's always best to just order beer here, and one of the saving graces of the bar has been that they carry the fine Belgian brew Chimay and serve it in a real Chimay glass. But yesterday, I ordered my customary Chimay and the bartendress gave me a regular rocks glass. "Don't you have the Chimay glasses anymore?" I asked. She just shrugged and looked blankly at me.

So I drank my Chimay in the wrong glass. As I exited, however, I noticed a little dog—the bar dog evidently—lapping up water from his bowl. The bowl? A Chimay glass.