Broker's Martini

So, Wednesday night, limerick night, I usually go to my local coffee shop to get a mocha to get my little synapses firing and enable a light-night writing session. (I get a mocha because, having worked in a coffee shop myself, I know that regular coffee doesn’t get brewed too frequently after about 5 pm.)
My coffee shop is actually a café/bar/restaurant (the restaurant part is new), and as I was waiting for the mocha (there was some difficulty with the chocolate, which had just run out), there was an order for a Broker’s Martini, which seemed to have the bartender/barista stumped.

So I jumped over the bar and said, “One Broker’s Martini, coming up!” I proceeded to charge triple the usual price, up front, of course, after having seen a statement of employment and three recommendations and a letter from the bank and a blood sample. Then I gave them a dirty glass and told the customer to clean it himself if he wants it clean and make sure the glass gets returned as he found it. Then I mixed a regular martini, dropped in a pre-used olive and drank half.

In my mind.

In real life I said, to the barista, “Just make a regular martini and drink 35 per cent yourself.”
When I got home, I looked up Broker’s Martini on the web and realized that the customer was probably just asking for a certain kind of gin.

Too bad.