I wander into a late-night bar and order a Belle Geule Hefeweizen—it kicks, so I have to wait for a fresh keg. And a glass of water, though I could wring it out of my shirt at this point, wandering as I have been through fog literal and metaphorical. Zep blasts on the stereo. I fail to fool the bartender into believing that I speak French, and my beer comes on a Moosehead coaster despite a stack of Belle Geule coasters adjacent. Not to tout the beer's virtues; it is thin in flavor and a bit disappointing though I hadn't expected much. I intend to patronize the 24-heure joint down the block and make my way back to the hotel after this beer which it turns out, has been fantastically expensive. This bar seems to be a haven for English-speakers.
Being as it is after 23.00, when I bring my bottles to the counter, the clerk takes one look, shrugs, and, seemingly in reflection upon my entire evening, sighs: "Desolée."
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