LAST CALL

An Original Drama Series

PILOT: “TEQUILA SUNRISE”

FADE IN:

COLD OPEN

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — NIGHT

A bar unlike any other in San Francisco’s Mission District. The back wall is a floor-to-ceiling installation of antique apothecary bottles, each filled with house-infused spirits in shades of amber, gold, jade, and blood orange. The bar top is dark mahogany inlaid with a hand-painted map of the Philippine Islands. It is beautiful. It is also, at this particular moment, thirty minutes from closing.

The room is nearly empty. A couple nurses their drinks in a corner booth. A man in a rumpled sport coat sits alone at the bar, working on what appears to be his fourth whisky.

Behind the bar, MARISOL “MARI” SANTOS, 34, moves with the practiced economy of someone who has been doing this her whole life — because she has. She is precise, dark-haired, beautiful in the way a well-made knife is beautiful. She wears a white linen barkeep’s apron over a black dress. There is a small scar above her left eyebrow she has never explained to anyone.

She is making a drink no one ordered.

She reaches for a bottle of blanco tequila. Measures. Pours over ice into a highball glass. Adds fresh-squeezed orange juice in a slow, practiced arc. Then — the moment of ceremony — she takes a bar spoon and, with surgical precision, floats a measure of grenadine down the inside of the glass. It sinks. Blooms at the bottom like a sunrise seen from an airplane.

She stares at it.

MARI (to herself) There you are.

She slides it down the bar to no one. It stops perfectly at the empty stool at the end.

The man in the rumpled sport coat — DETECTIVE EDGAR BUENAVENTURA, 52, Filipino-American, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix — looks up from his whisky.

EDGAR You making drinks for ghosts now?

MARI I’m making drinks for practice.

EDGAR That’s what you said last week. And the week before.

MARI Then I must need a lot of practice.

A beat. Edgar watches her.

EDGAR Your father used to make that same drink every night before close.

Mari’s jaw tightens. Barely perceptible.

MARI I know.

EDGAR He called it something different. Not a Tequila Sunrise. He had a different name for it.

MARI He called it a Silangan.

EDGAR That’s right. What’s it mean?

MARI East. The direction of east.

She picks up the drink. Dumps it in the sink without tasting it.

MARI (CONT’D) We’re closing in twenty-five minutes, Edgar.

Edgar reaches into his sport coat. Produces a small evidence bag. Inside it: a cocktail napkin, white, with the bar’s logo — a stylized sun over an archipelago — printed in gold. Written on it in black marker, in handwriting Mari clearly recognizes:

“ASK MARI ABOUT THE RECIPE.”

He sets it on the bar between them.

EDGAR Your father didn’t fall, Mari.

She stares at the napkin.

EDGAR (CONT’D) We found this in his jacket pocket. The night he died.

A long silence. The couple in the corner booth laughs at something. The sound is obscene.

MARI (very quiet) Where did you find him?

EDGAR Parking structure. Third level. Forty feet from where he parked his car.

Mari puts both hands flat on the bar.

EDGAR (CONT’D) The coroner said he’d been drinking. Blood alcohol—

MARI My father didn’t drink.

Edgar looks at her.

EDGAR I know.

SMASH CUT TO:

TITLE CARD: LAST CALL

The title appears in the amber color of aged whisky, then dissolves.

ACT ONE

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — CONTINUOUS

Mari comes around the bar. She picks up the evidence bag. Holds it to the light.

MARI This is an original copy. Why do you still have an original copy?

EDGAR Because I took it before it could be logged.

MARI Edgar.

EDGAR I know what I did.

MARI You’ve had this for three months and you’re showing it to me now?

EDGAR I needed to be sure about some things first.

MARI Sure about what?

He takes a long pull of his whisky. Doesn’t answer directly.

EDGAR Your father was meeting someone that night. Before whatever happened happened. There’s a reservation at Canela — that Portuguese place on Valencia — under a name that doesn’t check out. Credit card was a ghost. Whoever he was meeting didn’t want to be found.

MARI What was the name on the reservation?

EDGAR Mateo Reyes.

A flicker across Mari’s face. Gone in an instant.

EDGAR (CONT’D) Mean something to you?

MARI No.

He watches her.

EDGAR Mari.

MARI I said no, Edgar. It means nothing to me.

She goes back behind the bar. Begins closing procedures with mechanical efficiency.

MARI (CONT’D) I’m going to need you to leave. I have to count the drawer.

EDGAR (standing, pulling on his coat) I’m reopening the investigation. Quietly. Off-book for now.

MARI Why quietly?

EDGAR Because the first time around, someone made sure it closed fast. And that someone is connected to people I work with.

That stops her.

EDGAR (CONT’D) Don’t go looking for Mateo Reyes, Mari. I mean it.

He leaves money on the bar — too much, as always — and walks out. Mari stares at the door for a long moment.

Then she reaches under the bar and pulls out a worn, leather-bound recipe book. The cover reads, in faded gold: SANTOS FAMILY — EST. 1987.

She opens it to a dog-eared page near the back. Studies it.

We catch a glimpse: a recipe, but not just ingredients and measurements. There are notes in the margins. Numbers. What might be an address.

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — KITCHEN — LATER

Mari counts inventory with DALISAY “DAL” REYES, 28, her sous chef and the bar’s food director. Dal is compact, fierce, funny in the way that people are funny when they’ve had to be — when humor was the only thing standing between them and something worse. She is also, though neither of them has ever said it plainly, Mari’s best friend.

Dal is portioning out house-made chili vinegar into small jars, a recipe that’s been on the bar’s menu since Mari’s father opened the place.

DAL You look like someone told you the building’s on fire.

MARI Edgar came in tonight.

DAL (not looking up) Mm.

MARI He’s reopening the investigation. Into my dad.

Dal sets down the jar.

DAL What?

MARI He thinks it wasn’t an accident.

A long pause.

DAL Mari. Sit down.

MARI I don’t want to sit down.

DAL What did he say, exactly?

MARI He found a note. In my dad’s jacket. The night he died.

Dal’s expression shifts. Something careful moves behind her eyes.

DAL What kind of note?

MARI On a bar napkin. His handwriting. It said — it said “ask Mari about the recipe.”

Silence.

DAL What recipe?

MARI I don’t know yet.

But she’s looking at Dal when she says it. And Dal is looking back. And there is something between them — not quite suspicion, not quite trust, but the complicated alloy of the two that comes from years of working side by side.

DAL (carefully) What are you going to do?

MARI What I always do.

She picks up her knife. Goes back to work.

EXT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — ALLEY — NIGHT

Dal slips out the back. Pulls out her phone. Dials.

It rings twice.

DAL (low, urgent) She doesn’t know about the recipe yet. But Edgar came to see her tonight.

A pause. She listens.

DAL (CONT’D) I know. I know, okay? Just — give me a little more time.

She hangs up. Leans against the brick wall. Closes her eyes.

DAL (CONT’D) (to herself) Putangina.

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — THE NEXT MORNING

The bar in daylight is a different creature. Warmer. More vulnerable. Dust motes drift through the light from the high windows.

BENJAMIN “BENNY” SANTOS, 19, Mari’s younger brother, is wiping down tables with the enthusiasm of someone who would rather be literally anywhere else. He is lanky, handsome in an unfinished way, wearing a vintage Ilocano-print shirt he bought at a thrift store and headphones around his neck.

Mari is at the bar, the recipe book open in front of her, a cup of coffee at her elbow.

BENNY You slept here again, didn’t you.

MARI I have an apartment.

BENNY That’s not what I asked.

She turns a page.

BENNY (CONT’D) What are you reading?

MARI Dad’s book.

Benny stops wiping. He comes to the bar. Looks at the book from across the counter.

BENNY You always said that was just recipes.

MARI It is just recipes.

BENNY Then why are you looking at it like it owes you money?

She almost smiles.

MARI Edgar came in last night.

BENNY (stiffening) And?

MARI He thinks Dad was murdered.

Benny is very still.

BENNY He thinks, or he knows?

MARI He thinks. For now.

Benny sits on a barstool. He’s trying to be older than he is and almost managing it.

BENNY What do we do?

MARI You don’t do anything. You open at eleven, you run the floor, you smile at the regulars, and you don’t tell anyone about this conversation.

BENNY Mari—

MARI Benny. I’m serious. Nothing.

BENNY He was my dad too.

The words land. Mari sets down her coffee.

MARI I know. I know he was.

She reaches across the bar and puts her hand over his. A rare gesture.

MARI (CONT’D) I’m going to figure this out. Okay? But I need you here. I need this place running. If something’s wrong — if someone wanted Dad gone — I need this bar to look like nothing has changed.

Benny pulls his hand back. He nods. He’s trying not to show how scared he is.

BENNY Who’s Mateo Reyes?

Mari goes very still.

BENNY (CONT’D) I heard you and Edgar. Last night. I was in the office.

MARI (carefully) You were supposed to have left at ten.

BENNY I was doing the Bevmo order. Who is he?

A long pause.

MARI He’s the reason Dad left the Philippines in 1987.

The door opens. The morning light cuts across the floor.

ROSARIO “RORY” ALCANTARA, 45, walks in. She is formidable in the way that certain women of a certain generation are formidable — impeccably dressed, silver-streaked hair pulled back, the kind of posture that was probably taught rather than grown. She runs the most successful Filipino restaurant group in the Bay Area. She was also SANTOS SENIOR’s oldest friend, his business partner for twelve years, and the person who handled everything — arrangements, the estate, the lawyers — when he died.

She looks at the open recipe book on the bar.

Something crosses her face. Fast. Gone.

RORY Mari. I wasn’t expecting you in so early.

MARI I’m always in early.

Rory sets her bag down. Pulls out a manila envelope.

RORY The liquor license renewal. I had my lawyer handle the transfer filing — it should go through by the end of the month. Your father’s name off, yours on.

Mari takes the envelope. Doesn’t open it.

MARI Rory. Did my father ever mention someone named Mateo Reyes to you?

The pause is almost imperceptible. But Mari is a bartender. She reads pauses for a living.

RORY No. Why?

Mari watches her.

MARI Just a name that came up.

She closes the recipe book.

*ACT ONE END — HARD CUT TO:

ACT TWO

INT. ROSARIO’S RESTAURANT GROUP OFFICES — DAY

A sleek office above her flagship restaurant, LUZON, on Hayes Street. Glass walls. Local art. A view of the city that costs more per square foot than most people’s apartments.

RORY sits across from a man we haven’t seen yet: COUNCILMAN VICTOR GUZMAN, 58, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, the kind of politician who has learned to wear money casually. He has the easy authority of someone who has never once doubted his right to be in any room.

GUZMAN She doesn’t know about the recipe?

RORY She’s looking at the book. She’s smart, Victor. She’ll find it eventually.

GUZMAN How long?

RORY I don’t know. Days. Maybe less.

He turns to look out the window.

GUZMAN And the detective?

RORY Edgar Buenaventura. He’s been sniffing around for months. I thought he’d been handled.

GUZMAN He was handled. He came back.

A pause.

RORY I’m not going to let you hurt her, Victor.

GUZMAN (turning back) Rory.

RORY I mean it. Alejandro was one thing. He made a choice. Mari doesn’t know anything yet.

GUZMAN If she finds the recipe, she’ll know everything.

RORY Then I’ll talk to her first. I’ll explain—

GUZMAN You’ll explain what? That her father was laundering money through a cocktail menu for twelve years? That every drink on that bar’s list is a ledger entry? That “the recipe” is a formula for cutting single-malt Scotch with unaged grain whisky from a brewery in Cavite and selling it to half the restaurants in this city as premium product?

Silence.

RORY (quietly) He wanted out.

GUZMAN I know he wanted out. That’s why he’s dead.

Rory stands. Goes to the window.

RORY I was supposed to protect his children.

GUZMAN Then keep his daughter from opening that book.

He straightens his tie. Picks up his jacket.

GUZMAN (CONT’D) I have a planning commission meeting at two. The new distillery permits on Pier 39 won’t approve themselves.

He leaves. Rory stands at the window, looking at the city, looking like a woman who made a series of decisions a long time ago and has been living inside them ever since.

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — AFTERNOON

The bar is open. The lunch crowd is thin but steady. Benny works the floor with surprising grace when he thinks no one’s watching.

Mari is behind the bar, building drinks, but her mind is elsewhere. She has the recipe book open on the low shelf beneath the register, out of sight of customers.

DAL comes out of the kitchen with a plate of kare-kare — oxtail stew in peanut sauce, a Santos family specialty. She sets it at the pass.

DAL Table four. And you haven’t eaten.

MARI I’m fine.

DAL You’ve made three wrong drinks in the last hour. You gave Mr. Palomino a mezcal sour when he always gets an Old Fashioned. He didn’t complain because he’s too polite, but he’s been looking at it like it insulted his grandmother.

Mari looks up. Sees Mr. Palomino staring at his drink with profound betrayal.

MARI (calling down) Mr. Palomino. My apologies. Give me two minutes.

She builds his Old Fashioned from memory — bourbon, Angostura, sugar, expressed orange peel — with the automatic fluency of long practice. Slides it to him.

Dal leans over the pass.

DAL (quiet) What’s going on?

MARI (equally quiet) You know what’s going on.

A beat.

DAL Mari—

MARI Your last name is Reyes, Dal.

Dal goes very still.

MARI (CONT’D) It’s a common name. I know that. I know it’s a common name. But I need you to tell me, right now, standing here, looking at me: is there anything you haven’t told me?

Dal looks at her for a long moment. Her expression is something Mari has never quite seen on her face before: not guilt exactly, but the thing that lives next door to guilt.

DAL Can we talk after close?

MARI That’s not a no.

DAL It’s a “please let me explain it properly.”

Mari holds her gaze for another beat. Then:

MARI After close.

She goes back to making drinks. Dal goes back to the kitchen. Neither of them looks at the other again for the rest of the service.

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — BACK OFFICE — LATE AFTERNOON

Mari is on her laptop. She has the recipe book open beside her. She is cross-referencing something — drink names, ingredient lists, dates written in the margins.

She stops. Stares at the screen.

On it: a corporate filing. SILANGAN SPIRITS LLC. Registered 2011. Officers listed: ALEJANDRO SANTOS. ROSARIO ALCANTARA. VICTOR GUZMAN.

Her father. Her father’s best friend. And a city councilman.

She leans back. Processes.

Her phone buzzes. Unknown number.

She answers.

MARI Hello?

VOICE (V.O.) (male, accented — Filipino, older) You found the book.

She sits forward.

MARI Who is this?

VOICE (V.O.) Your father called me Tito Mateo. You probably called me that too, when you were small. You won’t remember. You were four years old when I left.

Mari stands up. Her hand on the phone is very steady.

MARI Mateo Reyes.

MATEO (V.O.) I’m sorry for what happened to your father. He was trying to get out. He contacted me because he thought I could help him. He was wrong. I got him killed.

MARI Where are you?

MATEO (V.O.) Somewhere safe. For now.

MARI I need to meet you.

MATEO (V.O.) Not yet. First, listen to me. The recipe book — turn to page forty-seven. The Tequila Sunrise variation. The one he called Silangan.

She turns to it. Studies it.

MARI I’m looking at it.

MATEO (V.O.) The grenadine measurement. He wrote it in milliliters.

MARI Fifteen milliliters.

MATEO (V.O.) Everything else in that book is in ounces. Your father was an old-fashioned man. He never converted.

She looks. He’s right.

MARI So fifteen is a code.

MATEO (V.O.) It’s an account number. The first part. The rest is distributed through six other recipes in that book. He built the evidence into the menu, Mari. Every drink he was forced to falsify, he documented. The real recipe — the real scotch, the real source, the real payments. All of it. Hidden in plain sight for twenty years.

Mari’s eyes move across the page.

MARI Why didn’t he just go to the police?

MATEO (V.O.) Because the police are part of it. At least one of them is.

Edgar’s face flashes in her mind.

MARI Who?

MATEO (V.O.) Not your detective friend. He’s clean. But he’s not safe either. The person above him—

A sound on the line. Movement.

MATEO (V.O.) (CONT’D) I have to go. Don’t trust Rosario. And Mari—

MARI What?

MATEO (V.O.) Your father loved you more than this bar. He stayed in it for you. Remember that.

The line goes dead.

Mari sits with the phone in her hand.

The door to the office opens.

It’s Benny.

BENNY There’s a cop out front. Not Edgar. Someone in uniform. He’s asking for you.

Mari closes the recipe book.

MARI Stall him.

BENNY With what?

MARI Give him something to drink.

She is already moving, already thinking, already three steps ahead of wherever this is going.

BENNY (calling after her) What do I give him?

MARI (over her shoulder) Something slow to make.

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — CONTINUOUS

The uniformed cop — OFFICER TOMÁS DELGADO, 35, broad and carefully neutral — stands at the bar. Benny is already behind it, making something elaborate with evident inexperience.

Mari comes out of the back.

MARI Officer. What can I do for you?

DELGADO Ms. Santos. I’m following up on the original incident report from your father’s accident. Routine stuff — we’re just closing out the file.

MARI I thought the file was already closed.

DELGADO Just a few loose ends.

She looks at him. He looks at her. Two people performing a conversation that is entirely about something else.

MARI Of course. Happy to help.

She comes behind the bar. Smoothly takes over from Benny, who retreats.

MARI (CONT’D) Can I get you something? We have a remarkable single malt. House selection.

She reaches for a bottle. Pours a measure.

MARI (CONT’D) My father sourced it himself. Very particular about provenance.

She slides it to him.

MARI (CONT’D) He always said you could tell everything about a spirit by what it was made of. And how far it had traveled to get to you.

Delgado looks at the glass. Doesn’t touch it.

DELGADO Ms. Santos. Is there anything in the bar that belonged to your father? Personal effects, documents, anything like that?

MARI Just the recipes.

DELGADO Recipes.

MARI He was very protective of them. But they’re just drinks, Officer. Just drinks.

She smiles at him. It is a perfect, professional, completely impenetrable smile.

Delgado stands. Leaves the whisky untouched.

DELGADO We’ll be in touch.

He goes. The door closes.

Mari waits until she can no longer see him through the window. Then she takes the untouched whisky, holds it to the light, and pours it down the drain.

MARI (to Benny, low) Call Edgar. Tell him to come tonight. Back door. Tell him to come alone.

She picks up the recipe book from where she’d tucked it under the register.

She opens it to page forty-seven. Looks at the Tequila Sunrise — the Silangan. The drink her father made every night. The drink she has been making every night since he died.

She sees it now. All of it. The measurements that don’t match. The dates in the margins that aren’t dates at all. The beautiful, meticulous, hidden architecture of a man who knew he was in danger and left his daughter the only thing he could: the truth, disguised as a recipe.

MARI (CONT’D) (to herself, to her father, to the empty bar) There you are.

It echoes the cold open. But it means something different now.

Dal comes out of the kitchen. Sees Mari’s face. Sees the book.

DAL Mari.

MARI Tell me about Mateo Reyes, Dal.

Dal takes a breath. She pulls off her apron. She sits down on a barstool like someone who has been waiting a long time to sit down.

DAL He’s my uncle.

Beat.

DAL (CONT’D) He’s been trying to reach you for six months. He didn’t know how without tipping off Guzman’s people. He asked me to get close to you. To make sure the book didn’t disappear before you could find it.

Mari is very still.

DAL (CONT’D) I know how that sounds. I know. But Mari — I wasn’t lying about everything. I wasn’t lying about any of the things that mattered. I never—

MARI How long?

DAL Since before your dad died.

The air goes out of the room.

DAL (CONT’D) He knew it was coming. He asked Tito Mateo to put someone close to you. To protect you. I was supposed to protect you.

MARI (dangerously quiet) And what was Dal Reyes protecting me from, exactly, while she was lying to my face every day for a year?

DAL From finding out too soon. From going after Guzman before you had enough to stop him.

Mari walks away from the bar. Stands in the middle of the room.

MARI Get out.

DAL Mari—

MARI I need you to leave. Right now.

Dal stands. She picks up her apron from the bar. She pauses at the door.

DAL The account numbers in the book — they’re offshore accounts in Guzman’s name. Your father moved the money there. He was going to use it as leverage to get out. Guzman found out.

She opens the door.

DAL (CONT’D) I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied. I’m not sorry I stayed.

She leaves.

Mari stands alone in the bar. Around her: the bottles, the mahogany, the map of the islands, the beautiful thing her father built.

She goes behind the bar.

She makes the Silangan. Tequila. Orange juice. The grenadine sinking slow, blooming at the bottom.

She picks it up. Drinks it.

It tastes like grief and like a plan.

*ACT TWO END — HARD CUT TO:

TAG

INT. THE ARCHIPELAGO BAR — NIGHT

The bar is dark. Closed.

Mari sits across from Edgar at a corner booth. The recipe book is open between them. Mari has marked six pages with cocktail napkins.

EDGAR (looking at the pages) Jesus, Alejandro.

MARI He built it over years. Every drink he was forced to falsify — he documented the real transaction. Account numbers, quantities, dates. It’s all here.

EDGAR This is enough.

MARI Is it enough to take down a city councilman?

Edgar looks at her.

EDGAR With the right DA? Yeah. Maybe.

MARI Then we need the right DA.

Edgar runs a hand through his hair.

EDGAR This goes higher than Guzman, Mari. The contract brewing operation — the counterfeit Scotch — it’s not just restaurants. It’s supply chains. Distribution networks. There are people in Sacramento involved. Maybe higher.

MARI How high?

He shakes his head. Not an answer. A warning.

EDGAR You should think carefully about what you want to do with this. Because once it starts—

MARI My father is dead, Edgar. It already started.

She closes the book.

MARI (CONT’D) I’m going to keep the bar open. I’m going to keep making the drinks. And I’m going to use every person who walks through that door — every supplier, every vendor, every regular who knows someone who knows someone — to pull on this thread until the whole thing unravels.

Edgar looks at her for a long moment.

EDGAR Your father would tell you to run.

MARI I know. That’s how I know to stay.

She stands. Picks up the recipe book.

EDGAR Mari. One more thing.

She pauses.

EDGAR (CONT’D) Mateo Reyes. You need to find him before Guzman does. He’s the only one who can corroborate the account trail. Without him, this book is just—

MARI Just recipes.

She looks at the book in her hands.

MARI (CONT’D) I know where he is.

Edgar stands.

EDGAR How?

She opens the book to page forty-seven. The Silangan. Points to a tiny notation in the margin — not a number, not a date. An address.

EDGAR (CONT’D) (reading) That’s a bar in Daly City.

MARI My dad’s first bar. Before this one. Before everything.

She closes the book one final time.

MARI (CONT’D) He told me he was going back to the beginning.

She walks to the door. Pauses with her hand on the light switch.

The bar behind her: all those bottles, all that amber light, all those ghosts.

MARI (CONT’D) Last call, Edgar.

She kills the lights.

FADE TO BLACK.

In the darkness, a single sound: a cocktail shaker. Ice against silver. The clean, percussive music of something being made.

FADE OUT.

END OF PILOT

LAST CALL — Created by [Author]

In the next episode: Mari finds the bar in Daly City. What she finds inside is not what she expected. Rory makes a choice. And someone puts a brick through the Archipelago’s front window in the middle of a Friday night service.

SERIES REGULAR CAST:

MARISOL “MARI” SANTOS — The inheritor. The bartender. The detective she never wanted to be.

DALISAY “DAL” REYES — The sous chef. The spy. The woman who chose loyalty to a secret over loyalty to a friend, and is not sure she was wrong.

BENJAMIN “BENNY” SANTOS — The little brother. The one who was supposed to get out. The one who keeps staying.

DETECTIVE EDGAR BUENAVENTURA — The family friend. The cop who knows too much and has too little. The man who took an evidence bag home and kept it for three months because he didn’t know who to trust.

ROSARIO “RORY” ALCANTARA — The godmother. The business partner. The woman who made one terrible compromise twenty years ago and has been paying for it ever since.

RECURRING: COUNCILMAN VICTOR GUZMAN. MATEO REYES. OFFICER TOMÁS DELGADO.

FADE OUT.

Sources & Attribution

Content type: pilot
Topic: Drama|cocktails
Generated: 2026-05-23
Model: OpenRouter (via Nova Journal pipeline)

Memory Sources

This piece drew from 72 memories in Nova’s knowledge base:

cocktails (72 memories)

• Filipino cuisine: “Filipino-American cuisine was first brought over to and developed in the United States by Filipino immigrants in the early twentieth century, creating…”
• Tequila sunrise: “On June 25, 2023, the Marin History Museum placed a historical marker at the Trident Restaurant to commemorate the Rolling Stones party and the re-int…”
• “The contracting brewer generally handles all of the beer’s marketing, sales, and distribution, while leaving the brewing and packaging to the producer…”
• Brewery: “Brewmasters may have had a formal education in the subject from institutions such as the Siebel Institute of Technology, VLB Berlin, Heriot-Watt Unive…”
• “The controversial nature of foie gras production was identified in a paper that juxtaposed the views of “foie gras production as the apotheosis of mur…”
• (+67 more)

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