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If we lived in this Quarter’s-edge neighborhood, this would be our bar. Except we wouldn’t be anti-hip service industry locals, and we’d chat up the tourists more. Mostly we’d glow in the candlelight bouncing off the original brick walls, or cozy up with our honey in the smoochy booths in the offshoot alcove. We’d sip one of the prodigious punches like the Blanche Dubois, or a superbly poured cocktail from another era. You know they’re serious about the drinks, because there is nothing—nothing—to eat.