[The place is made to look like the sort of tavern you'd find in the suburbs of Paris, dark wood, though the booths finished in a fine leather. She keeps the lights low, the bar polished, and wants the feel to mimic the inn her family had run when she was a child. Above the bar is the center-piece, a painting of a young boy, with bright sparkling eyes and a dirty face. It was as close to a painting of her brother, the one the tavern was named after, as she could get.]

You say that, but really what I wanted was your money. [She grins and pours the customary first shot she gives to her customers. Oh yes, it's a thing now. First time you come in, you get a free shot. And she'll even take it with you. Tonight, her liquor of choice is a French whisky. He seems the sort to like it.]

This one, however, is on the house. [She always pours with a heavy hand, and mild alcoholism.] To thank you for your business. And for making the journey to see me. Santé. [She raises her glass.]