Honor

Though the rake is fundamentally a gutless creature, he may decide to stand on minute points of honor when it suits his purposes. For instance, last night at the local lounge Gaspard and I frequent, a young rake of our very own acquaintance was wooing an alluring little number at the end of the bar. While whispering sweet nothings into her ear and twirling one of her ringlets about his index finger, her husband entered through the side door, noticed this scoundrel advancing on his wife and began pushing angrily through the throng to put an end to the rake's progress. The young cad, wishing to avoid any physical confrontation (as any rake would) quickly asked the bartendress what type of gin she was pouring into his martini at that very moment. She replied, "Fleischmann's - the house gin." Wasting no time, the young man spit out what he was drinking, shattered his glass on the floor and stormed towards the back exit, loudly declaring,"I don't drink gin distilled by Canadians!" Thus, he deftly avoided conflict with the cuckolded husband and conveniently also avoided conflict with the hefty bar tab he had been running up all evening.

Gaspard and I shared a knowing glance and rolled our eyes, both knowing full well he'd drink gin distilled by anyone.

He will not be able to return to that establishment for several months, if ever. But a man cannot consider himself a proper rake if he is not persona non grata at at least two bars in any given town.