A thin film of clientele -- about the caliber he expected out of a place like this -- and the country kitschy decor turn Tony off to any immediate potential here. That is, until he gets a glimpse of the selection of bottles behind the bar, and then it's all million-Watt smiles.
"Hey, how y'doin?" He shoulders his way up to the counter, almost puts his expensive elbows down, then thinks better of it and adopts a casual lean against the bar instead. "You got any Black Label? I'm parched."