I’m going to begin this post about Post with two disclaimers: The first is that this is not a proper review of the bar (which would require at least three visits), but rather a summary of my first experience there. The second is that I mean no disrespect to the dead.

That’s right, the dead. Let me back up a minute.

For weeks I’ve been meaning to check out the happy hour at Post, the bar in Post Alley just up the, er, alley, from The White Horse Tavern. So yesterday afternoon I gave them a call to check on HH times and specials ($4 drafts, wine; 4-6pm) then headed over. Walking inside, I was startled by how dark the place was. And gray. And bomb shelteresque. Not divey at all, mind you, but dark, with exposed pipes on the ceiling, a long, backlit bar lining one wall and those ubiquitous antique French ad posters decorating the other. I liked it, it was like a jazz club without the jazz—which is just the way I like a jazz club. Then they dimmed the lights, and suddenly it was I-can’t-really-read-the-menu dark.

But I forgave that, reader. Because I’ve been having some bad luck with music in bars lately, and because The Kings of Leon’s Only by the Night was playing, and at the perfect volume too. And because I was about to receive a $4 pint of Stella, a fact I reconfirmed with the bartender when I ordered it. He assured me that while their happy hour food menu wouldn’t begin until March, the current special included $4 draft beers from 4 to 6 pm. But then he charged me $6.50 for the beer!

But (talk about burying the lede) the real thing that distinguished my happy hour at Post was this: it included a wake. A wake that took place at the table next to mine, and a wake which no one mentioned would be taking place. In fact, it was quite a beautiful thing to witness. I don’t want to give away details here—that would be pretty tacky—but I will say that the mourners toasted the deceased with a round of shots, which is a badass thing to do at a wake. Clearly too, this person was well-loved. So I felt lucky to have been there, in a way. I didn’t even mind when a tear-striken mourner sat down across from me at my table to write a long entry in the guest book.

But some people aren’t like me. Some people don’t walk around hoping weird stuff will happen to them. I guess such a person, in my situation, could have just moved tables. But the bartender probably should have mentioned it. And he should charge happy hour prices during happy hour.

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