Harry F.
Google
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I have endured many indignities in my time, yet few compare to the revolting farce I witnessed at this bar.
Having ordered what one might optimistically describe as a fresh bottle, I instead observed the barman perform a manoeuvre more suited to a battlefield scavenger than a purveyor of drink. With the casual confidence of a man entirely devoid of shame, he scraped together the dregs from sundry near-empty bottles, poured this brew into a single vessel, plopped the cap on tight, and attempted to pass it off as new to me
When challenged, the fellow displayed neither apology nor embarrassment, merely the dull obstinacy of someone who has done this before and expected to get away with it.
The result was an atmosphere not of convivial cheer, but of grim distrust — the sort one feels when realising one’s drinking companion may be serving poison, or worse, watered-down saliva assembled from the leavings of strangers.
In short, if you value basic cleanliness, honesty, or the notion that your drink should not be an archaeological dig through other people’s leftovers, I recommend you beat a hasty retreat. There are many dangers in this world; being handed a Franken-bottle of stale dregs should not be one of them.
The bar itself is of classic beauty and a feather in the cap of any honest traveller but unless you would like to drink the remnants of someone else's swill I suggest watching the barman pop the cap in front of your eyes, otherwise there is a chance you are drinking dirty pennies from a nonchalant well.
Bode well my fair traveller.