I am a reasonable man. Perhaps a little OCD, but I try to hide it when out in the real world.
Which is why I am torn.
You see, I recently stopped in for some food and drinks at a new pub nearby in Columbus called the Tilted Kilt. I was bit bemused upon entry to find it was not what I was expecting. Not upset, but bemused. It was after we ordered that I had to decide whether to become upset. And it took some deciding.
You see, like any normal, foolish, middle-aged man, I have a very hard time becoming upset with a young bartender when she is wearing a short plaid skirt, knee socks, and a top that can’t decide if it wants to expose more midriff or cleavage….
You see, everybody at Tilted Kilt wears this outfit. (Well, the guys wear kilts too, but thankfully not these kilts.)
I happen to think that this is a brilliant marketing scheme…
I’ll bet you do!
Um, yeah. The fifty TVs in the place could all suddenly go to SEARCHING FOR SATELLITE SIGNAL and most of the clientele wouldn’t leave. And as I said, it must really cut down on customer complaints.
In addition to being a foolish, middle-aged man, I am also a Certified Cocktail Curmudgeon™. It looms large in my legend. And here is what set off my “moral” dilemma:
I sensed pretty quickly that this was not a place to try to spread the Pegu Gospel on a Friday night. So I elected instead for some basic single-malt and ordered, “a Glenlivet, neat, please.”
I was duly informed that the bartender did not know what “neat” meant!
This should have sent my warning alert to DefCon2, but…
“Wha?” I stammered. “Er, neat…. You know,” I continued, then made the mistake of using the most meaningless and ambiguous phrase in all drinkdom, “straight up.”
What was presented to me was a cocktail glass, filled to the brim with Glenlivet, shaken within an inch of its life, with a floe of ice shards coating the surface!
The Scot in me wanted to rise up, paint my face blue, and shout, “Ye can take our land. Ye can e’en take our freedom! But this is no way to treat a wee, puir, dram o’ whisky!”
The PeguWife sat there, trying not to laugh out loud as I tried to process the “drink” before me. She doesn’t often get to see me struck dumb like that, and I’m pretty sure she enjoyed the phenomenon more than a loyal and supportive wife ought to have.
But the food was good, I drank the “drink” (and, I’m embarrassed to say, enjoyed it), and we left before I could fully work my way out of the decision loop.
So I just came home and wrote this post—as therapy. And to warn you, dear cocktail-loving reader, that when you visit the Tilted Kilt near you, be ready with a pre-made decision on how you will react if this happens the next time.