My Career as a Liquor Inspector


Buffalo Trace Always Passes My Inspections


Strangers often mistake me for somebody else. When I mentioned that to one of them, he said the person whom I’m mistaken for may not be somebody else, but might be my double. I sure hope my double has a job in that case, because I don’t. At least I don’t think so. But I was given cause to doubt myself one evening.

I walked into a restaurant lounge on Amsterdam Avenue, sat down at the bar, and ordered a pint of ale. The bartender served it up with a smile and the words, “This is on the owner.”

I thought, “Wow, this is my lucky day!”

No sooner had I very gratefully taken a few swigs than the owner appeared, introduced himself and said he hoped I was hungry because he would like to buy me a “nice steak dinner.”

Well, I was flabbergasted. I thought maybe there is a god after all.

“Sure,” I said, “Thanks a lot!”

Well, pretty soon not only steak but lobster was set down in front of me. Then the bartender said the owner had bought me another pint of ale, and that my money was no good. Imagine that! Alleluia!

After I had finished eating, the owner came over gain. I thanked him profusely, and said I would come back soon because he had a swell restaurant.

He said something about an “inspection.”

“What inspection?” I asked.

“You know, the inspection,” he said under his breath.

“I’m not an inspector.”

“You’re not the liquor inspector?”

“No, right now I’m out of work.”

He was taken aback for a moment, then grinned broadly, and laughed out loud.

“Oh my God, I thought you were the inspector. Enjoy your meal, my friend, and do come back again,” he said, clapped me on the back and walked off.

Come to think of it, maybe I am the liquor inspector, and am just imagining that I am me.

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