Here’s a piece in the NYT about the seltzer deliveryman of Brooklyn, who fell and hurt himself, depriving two hundred customers of actual hand-pushed seltzer, complete in antique seltzer containers. And this is why I love the NYT, even when sometimes their slip in editorial standards sends me, weeping and clicking, to the Guardian.co.uk site. Human interest stories, pieces about “hunh, never thought about that before” slices of life just slay me when they’re written like this.
“Real seltzer should hurt,” is how one person describes the difference from the store-bottled stuff.
If that isn’t an invitation to run and find out, I don’t know what is. Off I go, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi in my new quest for “real seltzer.”