If you ever get the urge to sip on Christmas in a fucking glass to the smooth sounds of Smokey Robinson then head to Whippoorwill ASAP for the Irish Santa cocktail, which includes a tiny porcelain pitcher filled with Jameson and gingerbread liqueur accompanied by a highball glass of ice cubes and a cup of cherrywood smoke (as if!) wrapped like a present in red tissue and a blue ribbon and you open the package and it smells like a crackling fire at your grandparent's farm on the outskirts of Red Deer, Alberta, and you pour in the booze, add a couple ice cubes and take a few sips while you recall a time at a bar in Vancouver when you ordered a drink that came with a polaroid photo of yourself drinking it except this one actually tastes good and you can't help but notice a patron across the room yell-talking about how Joel got really fat after he stopped being a vegan straightedge (duh) and you can't tell if he's been playing in the quote unquote snow or if he was just born insufferable but your current yuletide buzz helps you get through it while at the same time encouraging you to do questionable things like snap a quick pic of the young gentleman at the bar's impeccable shoe and sock ensemble.