Cobble Hill Inn

(A true story from November 2009)
My buddy and I were traveling to Montréal when we stopped in the area. Friday night was the second night of the World Series, so after checking in at our hotel, we went off in search of a suitable establishment to watch the ballgame. The hotel manager suggested we try the Cobble Hill Inn — a restaurant-​bar not too far away «just make a left at the blinker».
On arrival, we were bummed out to find the front doors locked, but when we peered into the windows, we swore we could see people in the bar at the back of the building. So we walked around the side, walked up a deck, slid open the patio doors and entered one of the most bizarre gin mills we have ever set foot in. Never mind the fact that you had to enter the place via a sliding door. That’s nothing. There were two young couples at the bar — maybe they were 25 years old or so. With my hand on a Bible, I would swear to the heavens that I saw them do 5 shots each within a 30 minute span. I thought I heard one of them ask the bartender for a chocolate cake, but more on that later…
The evening was progressing at such a bizarre pace, that what happened next seemed completely normal. When the bar’s sliding doors opened up next, a gent in full clown make-​up walked in. We immediately started calling him Krusty. All of the locals knew him, despite his clown make-​up. He turned out to be a pretty nice guy, knew a lot about baseball, and after a few rounds, it’s really amazing how you can have a serious conversation with someone and forget that he’s wearing clown makeup
After the two young couples staggered out, I asked the bartender what exactly had they been drinking? He said, they’d had a few different mixed shots and shooters –specifically a «Red Headed Slut», a «Chocolate Cake», and a «Slippery Nipple». He said that with a straight face. I guess they are drinks?
By the fifth inning of the game, we were interested in some munchies, and we asked the bartender if he had anything like peanuts or pretzels. He said he didn’t have anything, which we thought was an odd response considering we were in a bar. Luckily, we had brought along a few bags of pretzels for the ride, so we asked if we could bring them in. He said sure, he even had some bowls to pour them into (So he had bowls — but nothing to go in them?). Anyway, we filled up the bowls and shared our valuable bar food with the handful of patrons there. Drinks were dirt cheap — we bought a few rounds for the house (including Matt the bartender) and 6 drinks cost $ 20. Krusty never reciprocated. The Yankees won, and so ended our memorable evening.
If you’re ever in the area, say hi to Matt and Krusty for us. And don’t forget the pretzels.