There are many reasons I’ve never had a bar cart. For one thing, there’s something sublimely Abigail’s Party about having an area solely dedicated to drinking. Plus a bar cart says: “I have my life together! Friends regularly visit my house and enjoy doing so!” (Both things I’m unable to verify.)
My new home, however, comes complete with a drinks trolley, yet I’m scared to touch it. Why? Mainly because I just don’t think I’m capable of producing something I’ll actually like. Besides chucking some cold gin in a coupe and dropping in a poorly cut toenail of lemon, my mixologist skills begin and end at lumping a few liquids in a jug and calling it a “lazy girl cocktail” – although “cocktail” feels a rather grandiose term for creating what is, essentially, a domestic version of a Wetherspoon’s pitcher.
