One of the first things Jürgen did when we got to Savannah was type “German Restaurant” into Google. The nearest place bore the tongue-twisty name of Schnitzel Shack, and was a half-hour away in a town called Rincon (rhymes with Lincoln).
Let’s be honest here. Pinkie Master’s Lounge is great, but it’s not the kind of bar you’re going to take home and introduce to your parents. You won’t be taking Pinkie Master’s to the Olde Pink House for an awkward first date, and you would never conceive of one day marrying it. Pinkie Master’s just isn’t that kind of bar. But on those late weekend nights, after respectable joints have closed up, and you’re not yet ready for bed… when you’re still looking for a good time… Pinkie Master’s knows what ya want. Pinkie Master’s got what ya need.
“Now just to make absolutely sure: you’re saying that you’ll put my beer in a cup, and then I can walk around outside, in front of cops, and there will be no problems?” The bartender was growing exasperated with me. “Yes, dude. For the hundredth time, yes. You’re golden.”