The tavern is crowded and you make your way past the groups of people excited about the parade. There are the occasional faces of disgust and those that get too drunk to hide the pains of life. To your surprise, there are no uniformed soldiers or members of the Gestapo lurking around, at least not in plain sight. Perhaps the Roasted Boar has an arrangement with the local patrol to not interfere with its business.
"One of those, please." You are at the set of taps where a bartender cleans a glass, his expression bored and unamused by the commotion inside. The man eyes you suspiciously and you think about blending back into the crowd if he starts to ask for your ID. Instead, he nods and fills a frosted glass with a bubbling amber lager. He says a few words in Swiss, which you aren't familiar with. He switches from German to French with ease before realizing he is not getting far if it isn't in English.
"Alright kid, here you go." He pushes the glass towards you and as you reach into your pocket to pay, his hand comes down on your wrist and the bartender leans in. "There's no way in hell you're 25. You trying to get me shut down? Who are you working for?" He's not physically imposing but trying to break free will definitely cause a scene.
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