"That depends," comes the reply, in a deep voice as richly silky warm as molten fudge. The source of the voice would be another minotaur, or minotaurc rather, tall and broad-shouldered with glossy mahogany brown fur wearing a finely tailored white shirt and vest combo that seems far too flimsy for his bulky frame, the fine material seeming at constant risk of tearing under the strain of containing the well-defined muscles visible in his arms, chest and back as he works. He approaches Krayger's spot, turning briefly to pull a bottle off the shelf behind him and flipping it upside-down to expertly pour a precise measure into the stainless steel cocktail shaker in his other hand. "What are you looking to taste, big guy?"