The Sour List: Every Modern American Grievance, Now Served With a Salted Rim

Welcome to the back bar at Abig Lime, where the ice is wet, the citrus is defensive, and every drink on this menu is a grievance we could have tweeted for free but decided to charge $14 for instead. Our bartender was handed a stack of modern American complaints and one instruction: make them drinkable. What came back is the Sour List — our house menu of signature cocktails, each measured not just in ounces but in ABV, which behind this bar stands for Anxiety by Volume.

A few house rules: every drink gets a lime whether it wants one or not. Prices are subject to change, and by "change" we mean "increase." And no, we cannot make it less bitter. That is the entire establishment.

The Rent Hike Old Fashioned — $14, Plus Fees, Plus Fees on the Fees

Rye whiskey, demerara, Angostura, and a sugar cube that dissolves slower than your landlord returns a call about the heater. Stirred down and served over one large cube, like the deposit you are never getting back.

Tasting notes: Opens with oak and vanilla, finishes with the exact sound of a lease renewal email landing at 6:47 p.m. on a Friday. Hints of "market rate," a place no human has ever actually been.

ABV: 68% Anxiety by Volume. Garnish: An orange peel twisted into the shape of a percent sign, plus a lime wedge billed separately as an amenity.

The Subscription Cancellation That Requires a Notarized Letter Sling — $13/Month, Forever

Gin, cherry liqueur, pineapple juice, house-made retention syrup, and a straw long enough that the drink can watch you age. To order it, simply download our app, tap "continue," and explain your reasoning to a chatbot named Sunny.

Tasting notes: Sweet on the approach, then a long, lingering finish of hold music. Mid-palate: a retention offer you did not ask for. The aftertaste is a confirmation email that says "We hate to see you go!" from a company that will keep charging your card out of respect for the relationship.

ABV: 74% Anxiety by Volume. Garnish: A paper umbrella that unfolds into a terms-of-service agreement, and a maraschino cherry you must call to cancel.

The Group Project Margarita — Split Four Ways, Built by One Person

Blanco tequila, fresh lime, orange liqueur, and the quiet rage of the only member who read the rubric. Served in a cactus glass with four straws, three of them backwashed. Ninety percent of this cocktail was assembled at 2 a.m. the night before it was due. The ice did nothing.

Tasting notes: Bright agave up front, honest citrus in the middle, and a lingering note of "so what did everyone contribute?" on the finish. Pairs well with doing someone else's slides.

ABV: 61% Anxiety by Volume. Garnish: A salt rim applied in direct proportion to effort — which is to say, on one side of the glass only.

The Surprise Medical Bill Sour — Price Available Upon Explanation of Benefits

Rye, lemon, and lime — both citrus, because the bill arrives in two parts — shaken hard with egg white until it itemizes. The foam is billed separately from the drink, and the drink is billed separately from the experience of drinking it.

Tasting notes: Deceptively cheerful on the nose. Mid-palate: a $1,340 charge for a ten-minute phone call that turned out to be a procedure. Finish: a four-page EOB set in a font designed by a hospital's legal team.

ABV: 83% Anxiety by Volume. Garnish: A dehydrated lime wheel and a five-digit billing code that no one — including your insurer — can explain.

We've Updated Our Privacy Policy Highball — Free, and It Shows

A forty-ounce highball of soda water, one drop of gin, and 9,000 pages of finely shredded terms of service muddled throughout. Served with a checkbox you already pre-checked by walking in here.

Tasting notes: Mostly water. Legally, it is not even required to tell you it's water.

ABV: 0.3% Anxiety by Volume — low, because you agreed to it without reading. Garnish: A lemon you consented to.

The Pour One Out: House Ritual

Every night at closing, we turn a rocks glass over the bar mat and spill a measure of whatever's nearest. It is not a gimmick. It is liturgy. Here is how it is done in your own home:

• Select a glass. Fill it with something you actually like, because the departed deserve the good stuff.
• Say the name. Out loud. The honored dead of this menu include: the customer-service human (extinct circa 2015), the phone tree's legendary "press 0 for a person," the third place, the second place, and your attention span, survived by no one.
• Pour. Slowly. Let it hit the mat — or the curb, or the parking lot of the lately departed mall.
• Do not sip from the pour-out glass. That is how you end up in someone's listicle.

Then wipe the mat, kill the neon, and go home. The grievances will still be there tomorrow. They are very loyal.

Seasonal Sours (Rotating)

This quarter, we are pouring the Daylight Saving Time Sour — all citrus, no hour. It tastes the way 4:47 p.m. in November feels: bright, wrong, and over before you adjusted. Coming this winter: the Open Enrollment Sour, available for six short weeks, unlike the coverage gap it honors. Ask your server what's in it. Your server will also not know.

Last call is whenever the news ends, which is to say: never. Tip in cash — the card reader has been "temporarily down" since 2019, and frankly the card reader has been through a lot. Sour takes on a sick society. That's not our tagline; it's our bar program.

Stay bitter, friends. Around here, it's the only vitamin C some of us get.