In a decade that now sits beyond the reach of my rear view mirror, there was a bar in San Francisco that advertised it was ready to serve drinks as soon as the first ball was served at Wimbledon.
The stench of urine was beginning to build along the blocks South of Market Street in the early morning light. There, a well dressed gentleman, a well-greased man of the streets and a young journalist fresh off the overnight shift could bend an elbow and discuss the news of the day and the sports being contested on the screen.
That was the life, and it is, we hope, the type of spirits we will serve here in the lounge. Getting here late is never a problem. We choose not to close, except for family matters, because our love for the selected sports/music/food on the menu never diminishes.
Besides, our dog, Pablo the hockey pug, likes guests. Just don't make him run you out. He's little and he's old, but the hockey pug still delivers a mean ankle check.
Thanks for dropping in.
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