New York City

He steps off of Madison Ave. and into the bar. The Kennedys would come here- not to drink, not to shake hands, but to dine.

Notes rise from the piano like they’ve been waiting for him. The paintings on the wall remind him of books he’s never read and beautiful women he’ll never meet. The leather has been here for two hundred years; the bartenders too.

The place is damp and dry, spacious and cramped, freshly minted and somberly traditional.

He walks to the bar. It’s a simple choice with two right answers: a simple classic, or a little adventure.