“A bar?” I asked as he parked and unlocked our doors. “And grill. A bar and grill,” he repeated, as if that made it any less bar-like. “You do know what goes on in an establishment like this, right?” I lowered my voice in a mock whisper. “I hear they serve forbidden beverages here. Aren’t you worried this might break my volunteer contract at The Bridge?” “Not as long as you promise to refrain from all Jell-O shot table-dancing endeavors,” he deadpanned.
