We were in there on Saturday, and had little roasted duck hearts on a stick. It made me feel like a dark pagan god receiving burnt offerings from my worshippers.
The wait staff and bartenders are pretty well illustrated. When the waitress slipped my Old-Fashioned (Rittenhouse 80, no garbage) onto the table, I saw this on her forearm.
"Money doesn't talk, it swears." -- Bob Dylan
It made me wonder how to tip her.
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