Imagine you are overworked, sleep-deprived and keen to begin your weekend with a well-aimed salvo of intoxicating elixirs. Where will you execute this time-honored plan, American drinker of 2015?

If you live in a reasonably large metropolis, your watering-hole options might include: the artisanal cocktail emporium where the staff display a fondness for arm garters and moustache wax; a beer at the arrested development palace touting its vintage arcade games and Skee-Ball; or, say, a shotgun wedding between sushi and tequila (more Google results than you might think!).

Now imagine that you have none of those options. What you have is T.G.I. Friday’s. You can get a mudslide at Friday’s, or a frozen strawberry Daiquiri. Remember those sickly sweet, vomit-inducing staples of your college days, the shots with raunchy names like Slippery Nipple, Sex on the Beach or Redheaded Slut? You can have as many of those that you like. But everything else—from that Boulevardier made with local vermouth to everything on that fish-paired, artisanal-agave-spirits list—is gone.