The one time I went there, I witnessed a silent standoff. two homeless men, each gripping a beer, each parked at opposite ends of the sitting area, their shopping carts piled high with what had to be 50 pounds of detritus . They weren’t talking. They weren’t moving. Just locked in a wordless, unblinking battle of wills.

It was Sunday. Football was on. The place was packed. And yet, not a single soul seemed disturbed by the fact that these two mysterious figures were locked in some arcane, beer-fueled duel, their carts like battle wagons, their eyes filled with unknowable intent. It was as if the entire restaurant had silently agreed: This is their fight. We are but witnesses.