It's in the aftermath of a party, a work function attended at the behest of a grateful client, that Alan makes the spur-of-the-moment decision to duck into a bar instead of enduring the rattling progress of the train.

Mog Hill has its virtues, this Alan acknowledges readily enough, and he shares none of them. His suit, his glibness, the easy insincerity of his smile--they tend to meet with mistrust here. So it's with no expectation of blending in that he approaches the bar and, flashing that smile like a magician showing off a coin before it vanishes, says, "Your least terrible scotch, if you please."