It was one of those days. The sun was already setting and the last glimpse of light reflected off the dirty windows of the familiar sign - the bar.

If you think the place looked decent, that would be an understatement. It looked like the best years got washed off with the rain four decades ago. It needed major work. Despite the looks, near the entrance, a group of well-dressed men smoking cigars, flashing fine timepieces paired with cufflinks, accompanied by fine-looking ladies in cocktail dresses and wearing red-bottom black leather heels.

“Let’s have a drink. It’s been a long week and the end is nowhere to be seen. Plus, you never know what’s waiting inside,” he thought to himself, suspiciously intrigued by the establishment.

With purpose, he opened the solid wooden door and was greeted with a stale torrent of air, which reminded him of an old cellar at his grandparents’ house in the country.

A middle-aged bartender greeted him with a look that could only be described as: I am bored, I need a real job, a change of clothes, better life decisions, and potentially rehab.

“Take a seat anywhere you like, it's dead today,” the bartender said.

At first glance, just off to the right, sat what looked like a couple of construction workers, drinking Bud Light and eating nachos with their hands covered in grey concrete.

“I can see that. It’s not only dead, but it smells like someone is still here being dead. Ever tried ventilating this place?” he said with a smile.

The bartender didn’t take that lightly and irritably replied, “Listen, do you want a drink or not? If not, there are tons of places that will be open for you.”

“I’m just pulling your leg, man. My name is Vincent by the way. I drink whisky in the big glass, neat. But for now, let’s start with a beer—cold and fresh. What is your freshest keg today?” Vincent said, while comfortably positioning himself on a high chair at the bar counter.

The place was small. The lights were dim to the point that you couldn’t describe the color of the nearest wall. Only three visible neon signs lit up the room: EXIT, WC, and STAFF. Low ceiling, poorly painted exhaust vents and pipe system, all visible to the naked eye, all black. The furniture looked beat, rundown, in need of repair. The whole place was a dump, but it had an impressive bottle selection: ranging from “you can get that bottle anywhere” to “I only saw that bottle at the whisky tasting expo.” This place was different.

“Heineken is fresh. I just changed the keg this morning. And my name is Dan,” the bartender replied without any sign of enthusiasm in his voice.

“Nice to meet you, Dan. Then Heineken it is, and I will accompany that pint with a double shot of Johnnie Green Label. You know, Johnnie and I go way back!” said Vincent with a devious smile.

“Sure, man. Do you want anything to eat?” Dan asked promptly, but not impressed.

Over many years and countless visits to similar establishments, he learned one thing and one thing only: If you don’t want to take antibiotics, then stick to drinking, because this place didn’t scream hygiene and passed inspections.

“I am here for drinks only, lots of drinks. It’s been one of those weeks,” Vincent said confidently and without hesitation.

After finishing the beer and blended scotch, he decided to continue his journey and ordered another round of drinks, while starting to get irritated by the noises of those two construction workers in the corner chewing their food and burping their cheap beer.

The bartender beat him to the punch. “Would you like another drink, man, or do you want a bill?” Dan said suspiciously, still looking bored.

“I most definitely will have another round - but let’s make it interesting.. How about a double shot of The Dalmore Cigar Malt—because I don’t think you can smoke here,” said Vincent, still smiling.

This place screamed a tale of lost hopes and shattered dreams, barely alive, left somewhere on the outskirts of Eastern Europe after the Soviet collapse. Despite all that, it carried a feeling of belonging and the beginning of something great.

“You never know. Here is your drink.” Dan placed a glass on a coaster.

After finishing his drink and placing a glass on the scratched surface of the counter, he hesitantly but with confidence asked the bartender:

“Hey Dan, I have a question. What’s with this place?”

“What do you mean, man?” Dan replied, confused by the question.

“Don’t get me wrong, I am a professional alcoholic,” he said, smirking.
“I know my drinks and this is not my first bar this week. What I am trying to say is, I am going to give this place 2 out of 5—and that’s because I never drank at 1 before,” he delivered sarcastically.

This was the first time he saw the bartender loosen up and smile over his five-o’clock-shadowed face. He definitely didn’t expect the joke to land well, but it sure did.

“You are a funny guy,” the bartender said, still smiling.

“Dan, I’ve been called many things, rarely funny,” Vincent replied quickly.

“You don’t say. Do you want another drink? It’s on the house.”

The ice had shifted. The code had been cracked. It was a good sign—a very good sign, he proudly thought to himself. He finally started to get comfortable.

In the moment of picking his next victim off the shelf, he got distracted by the construction workers leaving the place while banging their tool belts against the furniture. At that split second, the group of finely dressed men accompanied by the pretty ladies carried their laughter inside the establishment. The energy shifted drastically.

It got loud inside the place—very loud. “I still want a drink,” he thought to himself.

While he was trying to get the attention of the bartender, who was occupied greeting every person from that loud group, the group walked past the bar in the direction of the door with a WC sign above.

“Hey Dan!” he was yelling at this point.
“I want another drink please! But importantly, how big is your toilet?” Vincent asked impatiently.

The crowd disappeared behind the door and all noises faded thereafter. He had a very confused look on his face and, while trying to formulate anything that would make a sentence in his head, he noticed the bartender locking the door from inside, the one with the EXIT sign above.

“Vincent, you want another drink? I remember you said something about the cigar!”

He couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t reveal he was panicking. “Not in the toilet!” he said, still confused.

“Who said anything about the toilet? There’s another door inside the washroom that leads to the underground cellar. There’s a bar down there. Come, join us for drinks and cigars,” Dan said confidently, with a permanent smile on his face.

“You know Dan, that’s not the first time I got locked inside a bar. So let the party begin. You lead the way.”

The door with the bright WC sign shut behind them. He followed Dan down, deeper than he expected to go.

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