Prologue: I have to confess to already having a soft spot in my heart for this (alleged by Paladin to be a) gay bar in the Haight. This is the place where I perfected the Candy Cane Martini on Christmas Eve, 2006, after a whole holiday season of scroogy-humbugness that was extreme, even for me. It was not the naggingly imperfect (yet still delicious even when in development) cocktail that was responsible for my dispiritedness, mind you. But I was so delighted when — by chance, or could it have been a holiday miracle? — I hit upon the perfect combination of a certain kind of vodka, a particular type of schnaaps, and garnish guaranteed to bring me more holiday cheer for years to come than even Santa Claus could (unless Santa Claus looked more like Antonio Banderas), that even my Grinch-y self might start looking upon the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas with something resembling joy.