Ian eyed the tap selection – typical Bud/Miller/Coors macro swill – and looked past the bartender and into the small fridge behind the bar. There must be something drinkable in there… Ah, yes.

“Can I get a Chimay?” Ian asked, nodding towards the beer fridge. The bartender squinted his eyes in confusion for the briefest of moments as he turned to look behind him, then realized Ian was asking for one of those “foreign beers.”

“Sure thing.” The bartender slid open the glass door to the fridge and pulled out a squat, brown bottle. He popped the cap off with a churchkey that dangled from his wrist and set the bottle on the counter.

“Seven fifty.”

Ian looked at the bartender, the faintest hint of disgust in his eyes, as if this were the millionth time he’d had to say it.

“A glass?”

The bartender let out the smallest of sighs and pulled a heavy shaker glass from below the bar.

Beer snob.

Ian pulled eight crisp dollar bills from his wallet and set them on the counter.

Plebeian.