Behind the bar, tucked into a shadowy alcove that most patrons never notice, sits Wuher’s battered old refrigeration unit. It’s a squat, blocky machine that looks like it’s been cobbled together from a dozen other appliances. The casing is scorched in places, with sand permanently lodged in the vents from decades of Tatooine dust storms.

The fridge itself is a hybrid of Imperial surplus parts and salvaged droid cooling coils. Wuher swears it runs colder than a wampa’s den, but in reality it only keeps drinks just cool enough that a Rodian won’t complain. Half the time, the compressor wheezes like a sick bantha, and Wuher has to give it a kick with his boot to get it going again.

Even though you can't open it, what is inside? Perhaps the shelves are crammed with a mismatched selection of beverages and ingredients:

Blue milk in dented metal flasks, always in high demand with moisture farmers who come into town.

Flameout, a Corellian liquor that tastes like jet fuel, stored in heat-resistant bottles (because the fridge is more about keeping it from exploding than chilling it).

Pickled womp rat tails, floating in a cloudy jar, which Wuher occasionally drops into drinks when a customer asks for something “extra strong.”

A single, unlabeled bottle of something green and glowing. Nobody knows what it is, not even Wuher. He claims it was left by “a Jedi once,” but he says that about a lot of things.

On the door, Wuher’s scrawled a note in grease pencil:

“Don’t touch! Especially you, Greedo.”

The fridge might be unreliable, but Wuher wouldn’t trade it for a brand-new one. On Tatooine, a fridge that mostly works is about as close to luxury as you can get.