Dad sometimes had friends at our house for low-stakes poker, and they’d laugh the night away over cheap drinks and cheaper cigars. He’d even let me watch a bit, so long as I didn’t betray his cards. My first poker face. Seems my modern-day poker face, judging by the poor tournament results, needs work. But sipping on a fine snifter of Glenmorangie Lasanta scotch, chosen from a binder’s worth of worldwide whiskey and beer options, I don’t mind.
Amid the pungent wisps billowing from my competitors’ not-so-cheap cigars, surely plucked from the massive walk-in humidor upstairs, and after friendly chats with the staff and proprietor Joette Barta, I feel at home here. Is it worth the drive to 323 W. Main St. in Waukesha? You bet your ash.