It was one of those American small-town off-the-main-attraction tourist bar & grills papered with dollar bills, George Washington in all his unemotional placidity staring back at me from walls, pillar and ceiling. Off-season empty but for a pair of locals playing darts and a couple passing through on the way to somewhere relatives and presents waited for them. It was hard to tell whether the twinkle lights were seasonal or permanent, but there was no other sign of the holiday. So, permanent.
The place was stocked with beer, though. Lots of it. Their inventory must have been pretty mobile. The bartender just pointed a thumb over his shoulder when I asked for a beer list.
“We’ve got everything in those shelves.”
I counted five rows of 20 cubbyholes each, and every one had a different beer or cider. Maybe one was empty, just for the cliche.