Slate tried the Santorum cocktail at the Pacific Standard in Brooklyn's Boerum Hill neighborhood:
Served in a bathtub of a cocktail glass, the Santorum stunned at first sight. It promised the texture of an Oreo-accented frozen-yogurt smoothie. The garnishes floating on its glazy meniscus—a constellation of Godiva dark chocolate flakes, an orange splotch of Angostura bitters—parodied the AbEx mises en place of precious haute cuisine. In the Rorschach blot of the bitters stain, I saw a Scottish terrier in profile, and I meditated first on Santorum’s fantasies about “man-on-dog” sex and then of course about Mitt Romney driving to Canada with his Irish setter on the roof of the car, his hands positioned at 10 and 2, no doubt.
My Santorum was sweet but balanced, with a subtle citrus pucker, and I asked the bartender to pour some into an old-fashioned glass so that our new friends could share a taste.
At the end, though, the chocolate chunks prove too hard for the reviewer to bear.