Bretton Findlay
Google
The very first time I walked into this place I felt a strong sense that the decorator had imbibed some strong cocktails at one point or another--ideally made with absinthe and mescaline then garnished with slice of peyote for good measure, but what do I know? I'm no bartender—though, only by choice, because I refuse to take the call, to use the palate the gods have gifted me towards crafting cocktails that'll turn a prohibitionist into a free-spirited thinker; but also because I might be an alcoholic and I'm worried that if I'm surrounded by booze at all times I'll convince myself it's normal to race through a four-finger pour of bourbon until the burn doesn't even phase me anymore, until it just all goes down like water leaving me thirstier and thirstier until even that no longer matters, until all the voiced-concerns of my friends and family fade and I'm finally left alone with just myself, staring in a mirror in the dark, watching my mouth move silently, without my consent, trying to call out through the infinite, to the kinds of spirits that are still willing to make the trek to other plane in order to make deals with mortals; to try and quiet the voices once and for all. So now I go out when I drink, where the pours are measured. And boy oh boy are the drinks they serve here tasty! I had myself a "horse crippler" on more than one occasion.
I highly recommend the bathrooms. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but once you go in there you'd understand how a someone would get trapped in a place like that for hours. waiting for the others to make the first move, to catch them slipping into our plane. Sometimes I feel like a part of my soul might have been left behind, like there's a part of me that's missing. Each time I come back to try and find that sense of self, that sense of gravity that keeps me from floating off to somewhere better, to somewhere unknown.
Always glad to get out of the house! Definitely will come back.