Many sapients, in an attempt to work up courage in matters of the heart (or equivalent parts), recruit backup, witting or un-. Around the traditional organic lunch break time at the port, Clementine had told several of his co-dock-workers that he knew a place they could go. The rough crowd of manual laborers had gotten used to most of Clementine's idiosyncrasies, but the idea that he might have a good recommendation for a lunch joint provoked more mirth than appetite (particularly if they knew anything about the place he worked during the nighttime hours). When his description of "a bar, a very nice bar" proved unpersuasive, even with his increasingly desperate and strained elaborations of "with drink and food and stuff," he eventually resorted to his secret weapon: "the first round is on me, yes it is, on me."
Even so, only a curious few followed him from the spaceport to the edge of the city. There was Ulissh, a habitually intoxicated technician of low skill and indeterminate species, concealed in an enviro-suit; Fleepo, a Rodian who seemed to have mistaken his hobby for bodybuilding for having a personality; and Clasp, an ASP-7 labor droid that maybe had intended to come along, or maybe just hadn't had its last work-related order countermanded ("Follow Clementine and pick up anything that comes loose from his load").
With this gang of galaxy-beaters as his wingbeings, Clementine entered the Twelve Parsecs, waiting until they had come through the swinging doors behind him before he carefully delivered his pre-composed, not-very-quietly-rehearsed-on-the-way-there opening line.
"Hello everyone me and my friends would like a table the first round is on. Me." He stopped, reviewing it. Sounded good, yes. He nodded, the full-body bob nearly taking out Clasp, who had stood a little too close to his elbow.