Speaking of booze....
A lanky fellow in a tobacco-colored turtleneck and matching tweed pants wanders in with a beer mug in his fist, humming something that might be "The Irish Washerwoman". He pauses, blinking, as he realizes he is Not Where He Was A Moment Ago. For a moment, he levels a dubious eye at the contents of his mug; then he glances back over his shoulder. "Etrigan!"
"What?" came a thin, nasal male voice from the portal behind him.
"You...didn't brew with jimson weed again and not tell me, did you?"
"Er...no?"
"...just checking." Ellemere looked around again, peering at the setting, the crowd and the assorted signage.
"A question, ay?" He scratched his head, resulting in cowlicky goodness from his widow's peak to his ear. "Very well then. My best friend and business partner is a brewer, and he just put a decision to me that I can't make final to save my life. He's quite timid himself, and wouldn't be the sort to come out and ask a number of strangers. But...it's all the same to me. We own a pub, and he wants to know what he should brew for the next batch. Ale? Stout? Heffe? Something flavored perhaps? I have a terrible time deciding these things."