Another view of the dining room, with its eye-poking yellows. The place must have swung on a Saturday night. In a restrained, sensible way, of course. But imagine the local power-brokers, smoking Winstons, adjusting thier glasses (black rims on top, clear on the bottom) and loosening their tie as they order another Manhattan. It's 1950, boys, and Fargo is going to own the upper-north-Midwest flax market.