This article is a part of our Matters of Taste series , essays from our favorite writers on the artifacts and abstractions they hold most dear in their drinking lives.
When I'm between beers two and three at my favorite sort of bar - that is, of the old, low-lit, neighborhood variety - two things happen. I gain brief, undue confidence in my darts abilities, and I become especially susceptible to purchasing food from roving vendors.
You could easily stick the former in the same category as overconfident drunk dancing. The hubris, much like my darts prowess, usually wears off once I reach...
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