California has wine. New Orleans has bourbon. The South has the mint julep. New York—New York, I submit, has a problem.
Its problem sauntered into a trendy downtown bar in highlighted curls and lowlighted roots and an inexplicable pink tutu in 1998 and didn’t leave until 2004 and spent all six goddamn years ordering cosmopolitans.
Because before Sex and the City made it humiliating beyond the pale to be a New Yorker who likes men and order a cosmo—Sex and the City very nearly made it humiliating to be a New Yorker who likes men period—the drink enjoyed enough popularity to stick to the city like it’d been spilled there. Carrie Bradshaw and the cosmopolitan will always be a part of New York.
Then again, so will the hot garbage smell.