I don’t know if anyone here has read “Angels on Toast,” a 1940 novel by the wonderful Dawn Powell, but it contains a great passage of a character describing the Planter’s Punch served at “a literary hangout on Eighth Street” in Greenwich Village:
“What a drink! The waiter bore the glass with snow a foot thick all around the glass and a mountain above it topped by a miniature fir tree of mint, and extra long straws through which you drilled for rum, and it seemed to come up from the damp bowels of the very earth, you could almost get Floyd Collins on a clear day as somebody had once remarked.”
There’s a lot of talk of bars and drinking in the book. Powell was a big drinker and big bargoer.