There's a man at the bar already who very much looks the part for the event; by modern standards he's practically white tie, but the suit fits his narrow frame and his hair, slicked back in a style more thirties than sixties, is perfect.

He'd look the part more if he didn't have a murderous scowl on his face, before the sound of footsteps gets his attention and he schools it to be a bit more approachable. The white cane hanging from his right elbow isn't doing the impression any favours either, but at least by the bar he's out of the way, nursing something bronze in a low glass.

When Crichton asks that, though, Arthur snorts.

"Perhaps something a little more regional?" he suggests quietly, lifting his own drink. "Or should I assume you're not one for whiskey?"