We were out the other night at one the local “Japanese steakhouse” restaurants. The kind where they grill the ingredients in front of you and make little choo-choo noises with smoking volcanoes made out of stacked onion slices.
The party seated next to me included several women and one kid who I’d estimate was all of 16 – a very young 16 – and he was drinking a large beer with a sake cup plopped down inside it. As was his mother, or date, or whatever her relationship was to him. The waitress never blinked an eye or asked for ID.
I found out later that this bizarre looking drink is called a “Sake Bomb.”
The kid was certainly on his way to being bombed when we left.
