Sometimes one wants to drink with the dead. Bellied up to the bar inside this Lyn-Lake institution, you'll find yourself surrounded by animal hides and ghosts of drunkards past. The thick smell of hot grease permeates the bar, now that the smoking ban passed from news into normal. Order cheese curds and a brew, but don't come expecting to see the pretty people. Those youngsters just finding their well-accessorized way through Uptown won't be passing through these doors. This is for the gnarly, unkempt crew, those who remember the early days of complaining about the unending gentrification of this funky 'hood. The jukebox is likely to spin some old Johnny or Waylon tunes, songs about men accustomed to strong drinks and hard women, as timelessly weary and cool as the Country Bar itself.