"Serves you right," I said, as beer foam overflowed the glass onto the table, and all over his wallet which was sitting there. "Whoever told you to do it like that?"
"One of the Molson boys, as a matter of fact," he replied, distractedly, sucking his fingers and flinging a pocketful of used kleenexes into the accumulating pool. "Of the Molson's Molsons. So."
"That's fine, John," I said back to him, after all of about a split-second's thought, "but what on earth do the Molsons know about beer?"