Exiting Madison Square Garden and proceeding to pound the pavement of 8th Avenue, looking for a final brew to end the fun filled day of adventure and debauchery telling tales of drunkenness and foolery, and by chance, we stumbled upon Walters.
A fitting outpost for our post concert reflections and, if your finding yourself gabby, meeting new and luckiky, interesting people. As I chatted it up with a few fine young ladies about this and that, broski kept ordering bourbon and Fireballs, my buddy has an iron constitution and can drink like a man condemned.
Two bartenders held down the service as the late croud stumbled in, slightly aggressive in their choice of seats (IE: taken ones) but all in good spirits.
Walters has such a homely feel, bartenders add so much too cultivate that feel by giving so much of their time and every single interaction is chock full of smiles and kindness. Not trying to beat a dead horse, but both were top shelf, top of the heap — tenders of the bar.
No food was consumed, but a few red and white paper lined skewered goodies in shallow baskets were set down upon the bar, mid-chest level of a few regulars, or so they seemed too me, as they wrapped arms around their food and two for five dollar Pabst Blue Ribbons like a mother bear sheltering her cubs from any intrusions.
Very diverse croud of city folk just talkin, laughing and blowing off some weekly built up work or school steam.