It was one of those leather-padded bars, bogus-masculine, and still, because of its newness, smelling like the inside of a new motor-car. It was made to look like a Tyrolean Stube by a big stone fire-place with a roaring log fire and cartwheel chandeliers with red-stemmed electric "candles." There were many wrought-iron gimmicks -- wall-light brackets, ashtrays, table lamps -- and the bar itself was "gay" with small flags and miniature liquor bottles. Attractive zither music tripped out from a hidden loud speaker. It was not, Bond decided, a place to get seriously drunk in.
Ian Fleming
On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1963)
