It is a small room on purpose. Twelve leather chairs, one brass lamp, rain on the back window and a humidor that our lounge keeper has been filling all week for this one night. Ask for the house pairing: a mild, slow-burning smoke with a short pour of our cask-strength bourbon, or a darker leaf with a spiced rye if you like it with a little bite.

Not a smoker? Come anyway. The coffee old fashioned is on all night, the window seats are yours, and the conversation in that room is better than anything on a screen.

The lounge kitchen is sending in small plates: dark chocolate truffles dusted with smoked salt, candied pecans, and a board of aged cheddar, fig and black pepper crackers.

At nine the lounge closes, the masks come out, and the night belongs to the Masquerade. Bring your mask from the Mask Table, or let me find you one on the way in. Twenty-one and over, as always, and the ride-home desk is by the front door.

Come early. Sit close. Let the smoke do the talking.

- Scarlett

So tonight we lean into it. Mischief Night in the Red starts at eight. The lights go down a shade, the candles come out along the bar, and the bartenders pour a three-glass Mischief Flight: a smoked cherry sour, a spiced pear highball, and a small, wicked pour of the Midnight Veil for anyone who missed it this week.

At the end of the bar you will find the Mask Table. Pick one now, try it on under the red light, and we will hold it with your name on it until Saturday. Black lace, velvet, feathers, bone white. First come, first masked.

The kitchen is sending out devilled eggs with smoked paprika and a plate of black garlic wings, and the pumpkin bourbon cheesecake stays on the board through the weekend.

The house band plays a quiet set of slow, dark covers after ten, and the booths in the back stay open for anyone plotting their entrance for tomorrow night. Saturday belongs to the Masquerade and Wolves of Tenth Street. Tonight belongs to the mischief.

I will be by the Mask Table. Come let me pick one for you.

- Scarlett

Monday: Karaoke in the Red. The mic opens at nine. Torch songs are encouraged, power ballads are tolerated, and the bartender keeps score.

Tuesday: House pool league night. The standings are tight going into the last stretch of the season, so come watch the rails get nervous.

Wednesday: Black Rose Riot takes the stage at ten. Bring earplugs or bring a date, ideally both.

Thursday: Smoke and Embers in the cigar lounge. Leather chairs, a slow pour, and a new box from the humidor I have been saving for a cold night.

Friday: The poker room deals a friendly table for chips and bragging rights only. Seats go fast, so tell the bar early.

Saturday: The Masquerade. It is Halloween, darlings. Wear a mask, wear black, wear red, or wear something I will be talking about until spring. Wolves of Tenth Street play the late set, and the Velvet Hours menu runs until close.

Sunday: The screens light up for the afternoon games. Watching only, wings by the dozen, and quiet booths in the back for anyone recovering from Saturday.

The kitchen adds a pumpkin bourbon cheesecake all week, and the bar is pouring a smoked blackberry old fashioned it calls the Midnight Veil. Ask for it by name.

Find me at the end of the bar. I will be the one behind the red mask.

- Scarlett

Starting this week, the wall behind the back booths opens up: forty private bourbon lockers in dark walnut and brass, each one with a key, a nameplate, and room for the bottle you would rather not share with strangers.

Here is how it works. You pick your pour from our shelf, we engrave your plate, and the bottle waits in the dark for you. Walk in any night, say the word, and it comes to your table with clean glasses and a little ceremony. Locker members also get first call on the Velvet Hours list and a standing seat at our monthly members' tasting.

Lockers go by the season, and when they are gone, they are gone. Ask for me at the bar and I will show you the wall myself.

Some names belong in lights. Yours belongs on a bottle in the red.

- Scarlett

Starting this week we are pouring Velvet Hours, our after-midnight list of dark, slow cocktails. Smoked bourbon under black cherry. A gin so cold it hums. Something called the Crimson Veil that I will not explain here - come find out.

No rush, no crowd. Just the hum of the neon, a stool with your name on it, and a bartender who knows when to talk and when to let the glass do the talking.

Velvet Hours run from midnight to close, every night the door is unlocked. Pull up a stool along the bar and stay a while.

I will be here, in the red.

- Scarlett

Double elimination, handicapped, so the regulars can’t hide behind their reputations. Race to five on the winners’ side, four on the losers’. Entry is $25, and the house adds $300 to the prize fund.

Sign up at the desk before the first rack; brackets and rules are posted there too. Come early, order something dark from the bar, and find a spot along the rail.

I’ll be watching every break.

- Scarlett

Grab a stool before kickoff, because I don’t save seats. Not even for Scarlett, and it’s her bar.

Starting this weekend, Sundays at Rack House Digital belong to pro football. Every screen on. Big game gets the sound. Doors at 11, first kickoff gets the first round of cheers, and I don't stop pouring until the last whistle.

Game-day specials

• Game-Day Bucket: five ice-cold domestic bottles for $20. Share it or don't. I won't judge.
• Wings deal: 75¢ wings all day. Classic, Red Light hot, Black Garlic or Honey Smoke.
• Kickoff Shots: $4 at every kickoff. Yes, every one. Pace yourself, rookie.
• Touchdown round: when the big game hits the end zone, the bar gets a surprise. You'll hear me.

Wear your colors. Any colors. Talk all the trash you want, just tip like a champion.

And yes, I know whose name is on the sign. Scarlett owns the place. I just make Sundays worth showing up for. Some of us ride motorcycles and look moody in the rain. Some of us actually know what a two-minute warning is. Football season only lasts so long, so come see the fun one.

First one’s this Sunday, October 18. Every team, every crest, every rivalry in here is house-made fiction, so wear any colors you want. See you Sunday. Front row's mine. Bar stools are yours.

— Endzone

Scarlett: Cute. Remember whose bar you're pouring in, sweetheart.