The Tune Inn is like the favorite neighborhood you knew back home, wherever back home is or was -- and back when there was such a thing as a neighborhood bar.
The heads of deer and even a bear stare down on the patrons, who are waited on my crusty, no-nonsense but heart-of-gold waitresses who tend to hail from somewhere way out beyond the Beltway.
The key is this: when people come to the Tune Inn, they try to be nice folks, or they are shunned. They can talk politics -- hell, this is Washington! -- but they can't do it in a mean, exclusivist way. You can be childish but you can't be a jerk. You'll be shunned, or thrown out on your ass.
If the congressional super committee held its secret deliberations in a booth at the Tune Inn, under the watchful eyes of the dead deer and the salty waitresses of a certain age, we would have a deal well before the third pitcher of Naty Boh was served.