This part of the cellar was actually called The Squirrel. At first it seemed like an odd, if not stupid, name--but then, dragging their eyes over the small bar which Ithacles was currently perched behind, one noticed a small stuffed squirrel sitting in a tiny rocking chair. In his little dead paw he had a pipe. A nice drinking partner, as he was eternally quiet and patient, sitting on the counter in his artfully crafted seat.
In fact when Vedette walked in, the chair was rocking gently back and forth, as Ithacles had just tapped it with a finger. When she arrived, Ithacles was behind the bar (as noted), and the monk was sitting on a cushion against a shelf full of bottled black porter. The shelves were tall and heavy and scattered with small yellowing scraps of parchment, naming vintages and harvests.
The bar the Prince occupied was only seven or eight feet long, barely enough to register as more than a counter top. It was a station designed for the cellarmaster and his assistant (Brother Rauld, the portly man on the floor). Before a feast they'd be given small samples of each dish and choose the beverages accordingly.
"...Oh," said Ithacles, the first of the two men to respond. "You know about this place?"
He thought of it as a bit of a private haven. He liked the cool musty air, the silence, and the vast expanse of it. He often found himself a flagon and pretended to be one of the monks, forgetting about the toil and scramble of the noble world happening only thirty feet above their heads.
He took the ladle from her and shrugged. Behind him on the wall was a small wooden placard which read:
Get up off your asses and set up the glasses, I'm drinking this place dry.