If Hemingway had visited Cold Tea, and then, written about it the next morning, it would have gone something like this:
There was a small road that led off of a big road. You were guided into a narrow concrete hallway. It was lined with the rags of the morning. You go into a small concrete box where men and women ride out the vestiges of imagined courage. And if you stand in a particular corner, you can smell the desperation, and you can see the haunted looks.
After awhile it gets hot, and you have to leave.