This post is written by what we imagine James Paul’s voice would sound like.

I scratch my chin while giving a quick, aloof glance around the room. I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes, waiting for the beer maid to take my order for a cold, frosty mug of Guinness. Possibly also a Reuben sandwich, what the heck, it’s Saturday night in Spokane and anything goes.

The interiors: Like TGIF, but more generic. I give a blase sigh as I fathom the Post St Ale House taking the place of the aforementioned haunt after it recently closed its Valley doors. Capitalist hounds!

The bar wench finally comes around, with the professionalism of somebody who dropped out of a community college hospitality program six months ahead of graduation. Typical. Doesn’t she know who I am? I am James Paul! A Hometown Hero!

I feel the mood around the table getting gloomier. Only twenty beers on tap, and no list of bottles to be seen. If this is an ale house, shouldn’t they go above and beyond with their selection? I let out another exasperated sigh as I think back to what my mentor, Remi, said about the Bittercreek Alehouse in Boise, a virtual Shangri-La of brews; a destination for any alehound. Not like this, this pit of an Elk-wannabe.

About 25 minutes after arriving we receive our order of beer. I smack my lips while sipping the Guinness. Tasty, of course, but I can get this anywhere. I wish I could grow a beard. But I digress.

Fifteen more minutes, and the food arrive. Soggy, cold fries. A black bean soup which tastes like dishwater. Oversalted sausages. Hot wings that have turned cold in its congealed sauce. Don’t even get me started on my Reuben. Is this the best casual option Spokane can open in 20-and-frickin’-09? Amazing. Truly astonishing.

My eyes glance over to Remi. He, too, looks unimpressed. Not surprising, certainly, seeing how he has taught me everything I know.

The beer maid returns with our checks, without asking if we want another cold brew. Even though the place is far from full, they want us out to wander the streets among hoodlums and Juggalos.

So be it.

I don’t want to spend another minute inside the Post Street Ale House. The Viking has a better beer selection. The Elk has a better bar food selection. I am James Paul. I have better things to do than waste my time on something worse than mediocre. I’d rather drink a Faygo.