From the outside, The Trough looks like a huge building—bunch of buildings, maybe, all crunched into each other; it’s hard to tell—some three or four stories tall, depending on which angle you look at it and how drunk you are. (Rumor has it that some of the towers are five stories tall. Could be.) The thing covers an entire block, and—I’m talking frivolous architecture, here, not serious drinking—makes absolutely no rhyme or reason.
Just think of an edifice put together by some kind of architect’s crazed patron saint in a drunken stupor. Insane, and huge.
But it’s way, way bigger than it looks.
On the inside, that is. Don’t ask me how it works, but every real Trough-man knows that The Trough is bigger inside than out. The famous mathematician Riemann Laebmauntsforscynneweëld once visited The Trough. Rumor has it that’s where non-Euclidean geometry got started.
So we’ll skip over the rest of the exterior description. Who cares, anyway? The ale’s inside.
Though I might point out, as we head for the door, the huge feeding trough hanging over the entrance. It’s The Trough’s only sign. Stolen, they say, from some minor farm god’s hogpen. Wouldn’t know, myself. I didn’t consort with deities. Even the lesser ones were bad news, even though the Church said they didn’t exist.
And I might also suggest, as we reach the entrance—my civic duty, this—that we give the door itself a moment’s scrutiny. The thing’s big, and heavy, but it swings open well enough on account of it’s kept well-greased. The door’s made out of oak, mainly, but there’s plenty of wrought iron to give it some extra strength. Which it needs, as the many deep gouges and gashes demonstrate. Been many the desperate deed been done at the entrance to The Trough. And, yes, those dark stains covering the door are blood. Along with some other stuff. Delicacy forbids precise description.
Inside! Into the holy chambers!
As soon as you step into The Trough, you find yourself in the taproom. The “main” taproom, I suppose I should say, since there’s any number of smaller ones scattered through the place. But, by hallowed tradition, it’s just called the taproom. (I don’t have much truck with the smaller ones, anyway. Those are for sissies.) You cast your eyes about, examining its cavernous interior. Immediately, you notice—
You can’t see a blessed thing. You’re blind as a bat.
Yes, the lighting is dim. Dim. That’s the way your proper Trough-men like it. Keeps the snoopy eyes of officialdom under a handicap, of course. But, what’s more important—your porkers don’t venture into The Trough too often, and when they do they come in such hordelike numbers that there’s always plenty of warning, anyway—it allows the Trough-man planted on his favorite stool that blessed moment wherein he can discern the figure of the new arrival before the new arrival’s eyes have had time to adjust to the gloom.
Important, that. A lifesaver, it’s been, often enough. Many’s the Trough-man who’s alive today, with sane spirit and functioning kneecaps, on account of how he had time to slip into the maze back of the taproom before the newly-arrived grudge holder, enforcer, bill collector, feudist, outraged (and-now-armed) victim, disgruntled husband, insensate father, insensate mother, insensate wife, insensate you-name-it, serial killer, homicidal maniac, gibbering lunatic or evangelist had time to spot him in the throng and nail him.
Soon enough, your eyes adjust, and now you can make out the full splendor of the vista.
The taproom’s huge, huge. A single room, basically, though the thick wooden pillars give the illusion of walls. The ceiling’s a bit on the low side, which allows the smoke to gather properly. On a busy day or night—and which aren’t?—the pipe and cigar smoke is so thick that you can’t really see the further corners of the room. Through a glass, darkly, your poets might say. If you squint, you can spot the multitude of little nooks, crannies, alcoves and corners which adorn the various sides of the room. (How many sides? I’m not sure. Sober, I’d say the taproom’s more or less hexagonal. Other times—more sides. Lots more.)
But fie on all that! Never bother with the nooks and alcoves, myself. I’m for the main floor, I am, along with all your other proper Trough-men stalwarts. There’s tables scattered all over the place, and plenty of chairs. Crowded, true—always is—but there’s usually a chair to be found somewhere.