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I don’t know when it happened, but at some point in my drinking career, I started requiring a cocktail napkin with my drink.  If the bartender doesn’t set my drink on a cocktail napkin (or one of those cardboard coasters), I’ll reach for one myself.  If the cocktail napkin is drenched from an overfull beer, I replace it with a fresh one.  It’s just a thing I do.

This past Sunday, Bill and I had brunch with various family members at a restaurant in northern Virginia.  Unlike our last visit (Mother’s Day) to the same place, this time we practically had the joint to ourselves.  We had been lounging for a while, enjoying our coffee and orange juice and Bloody Marys in anticipation of our meal, when it happened:  my dad stood up in the middle of the conversation, walked over to the servers’ station, grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins, and set a napkin under every drink at the table.

I thought Bill’s eyes were going to fall out of his head.

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