The setting was wrong. All wrong.

For starters, it was nighttime in Washington, D.C. It was indoors — which, wrong as it was, was just as well, given what a damp, drizzly winter’s night it was. It was a good night for some warming whiskey — a smoky Islay single malt, perhaps, maybe even an Irish coffee. But the bistro chalkboard was advertising something entirely different, something suited to an Italian sidewalk café on a blazing summer afternoon: Aperol Spritzes.

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