The Three Martini Lunch. A DC Tradition for so many years. It represents all that is smoky backroom Washington: grizzled old fat men in suits that cost as much as used cars, dirty martinis that are strong enough to fill molotov cocktails, steaks the size of your head.

Is the era of the Three Martini Lunch gone by us? Are there no more lunches at Signatures on Penn Ave that take the equivalent of a night at the Opera and cost as much as the GDP of a small African nation? Modern Drunkard Magazine encourages us to revive the lost art of the martini lunch ^[1], in order to save not just our productivity, but our very mortal souls:

Institutionalization of the martini lunch would bring vast changes. Disgruntled, shotgun-wielding lunatics in dress-shirts mowing down their supervisors and co-workers would fade into history. Bickering, shouting, and disasters like disciplinary probation would all but disappear.

I couldn’t agree more. Bartender? Pour me a martini to go with that sandwich.