As if he has yet to even look at the world around him, the man's eyes turn over the bar, its patrons, and the healthy buzz of lives being lived before nodding. "Yeah. Think I could become a regular." If this place ever dies down enough that McCoy feels like he's in a bar, not a club. He comes to these places to brood, not thrum with young activity.

"'Course, I'm a li'l biased, I suppose," he mentions, pointing his glass at the bar. "Jim works as a bartender here--Allegedly." The amendment smacks of his southern drawl. "Haven't exactly seen him in person yet." Which is a shame, because if anyone can make a mint julep just the way he likes it, it's his Captain.

"What about you? Personal invite or did you happen upon it?"