To tell a post-2010 Bushwickian that he can’t have something frivolous is to tell him, basically, he can’t breathe. The frosé craze that has pervaded Brooklyn and even Manhattan (deemed by outsiders as somehow the less chicer of the two) of late has thusly left them all on an alcoholic hook they can’t let go of.
With bars like The Rookery, The Dromedary (ever on the outs since continuing the ruination of karaoke) and newcomer/technical oldcomer “Idlewild” investing in the machines that churn out frosé like so much spun gold, the recent and simultaneously defunctness of all these no longer magical devices has led many a white girl in particular to start exhibiting imminent signs of a meltdown (a cruel expression in this instance).
Basique Beech commented, “What the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? Go to Chirpers for frozen whiskey? I’m not that kind of girl. I need my goddamn watermelon-garnished frosé!” If these machines don’t get repaired soon, well, someone should open another frosé-only bar and capitalize on the void while the trend is still going.
Written by Genna Rivieccio