On those straws, Madeleine, the bigger question isn’t plastic vs. paper. The bigger question is: Why?
Everybody wants to give me a straw: Starbucks, the café at the gym (shut up, all of you), even the occasional drink-drink bar, depending on what you order. A decade or so ago, half the drinking establishments in the civilized world were for about 18 months filled with young Paris Hilton impersonators drinking from little miniature bottles of champagne with straws sticking out of them.
Whiskey Tanqueray Frangelico?
Being as I am not: 1.) an invalid 2.) a 16-year-old girl in a 1950s malt shop in some charming old Technicolor movie 3.) a Howard Hughes-level germ-and-bug strange-o, no thanks—hard pass on the straw. I’ll drink like a functional adult who can lift a glass to his face, thanks.
Yes, I know about cobbler cocktails. This isn’t 1832.
Straws, like shorts in public if you are not actually in Bermuda, are for children.
You know what kind of grown man uses a straw? The guy who is watching something loud and obnoxious on his phone in public without headphones. In shorts. Like it’s normal. Like he shouldn’t be murdered on the spot.
Don’t be that guy, is my advice.