Ernest Hemingway taught me to drink pink gin. Islands in the Stream, yearsandyearsandyears ago. He puts a few drops of bitters into the ice-sweating glass on board his boat in the blue Gulf off of Cuba. (I hope that last phrase proves me American.)
So I did, too, then. And now, a terrace can be like a boat. I put some mint in, too.
These G&T pictures are shamelessly inspired by a beautiful post by jvdh...
I wonder if I can read Hemingway again. I was so besotted with him so long ago. At least a Moveable Feast (oysters, wine, Paris). Or The Garden of Eden (boiled eggs for breakfast, and how to order and eat them, the beach). For Whom the Bell Tolls (raw onion in pocket, peeled, sliced into sandwich under pine trees).
The man was the food writer before food writers.