"On a recent night at Roneria Caracas, a bar with its own name tucked inside a restaurant in Williamsburg named Caracas Brooklyn, a young woman with jet-black hair, a small barbell piercing her nose, and gashes in her earlobe from a former surfeit of earrings took a stool at the corner of the bar. “I like whiskey,” she announced to the bartender.
Gently, but without apology, the bartender replied, “I cannot make you anything with whiskey.”
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