The Spirit of 2022 Is Jagermeister—Yes, Really

My first encounter with Jägermeister was a summer time in faculty, working as a shot woman at a bar referred to as Coconuts. Technically, Coconuts was a seafood restaurant in Dewey Seaside, Delaware that reworked right into a darkish and dank dance corridor on weekend nights. My job was to fill a spongy tray with take a look at tubes of the holy trinity of faculty booze—Jäger, Goldschlager, and Sambuca—and carry it across the room promoting pictures to sweaty, already-drunk patrons.

I hated the style of Jägermeister, a punishment to the esophagus. And I haven’t had it since.

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