Old Philadelphia Bar in Kensington. When man on the left heard I was a writer, he said he had written four novels. He then proceeded to tell me the plot of one. This went on and on, and I don't remember a word of it. The dude was sitting across the bar from me, mind you.
He was awfully nice, though. When Howard and Loreen left the bar, he got up to carry Howard's bags to the bus stop. He knew Howard had problems walking.