The bar was still quiet when I stopped by early on a Wednesday evening, greeted by that distinct, Dirty-Franconian aroma: 84 years' worth of beer and booze, plus something mildly basementy. A guy in a flannel shirt and knit cap was already slurring his speech and playing air guitar. A group of four arrived with a pizza, claiming a booth and an armful of shots. A couple of women asked for pinot grigio. "We have chardonnay," the bartender responded, then fished a large bottle of Foxhorn from below the bar and filled two glasses to the rim.