No sign on the door. No rush at the bar.
A quarter-ounce either way is a different drink. The jigger does not guess.
Rye, house bitters, and nothing hurried. The bottle tips; the room waits.
Everything meets the cold steel, then the ice. Some drinks are stirred; this one is built.
Find the unmarked door off the alley, then the second door behind it. Inside: fourteen seats, one bartender, and a back bar older than the building's wiring. Conversation stays at table volume. Phones stay in pockets. The ice is cut by hand because it tastes better unhurried.