Really? I mean, REALLY?!?

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….


Not our bartender, but a good representation.
(source)

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…

Oh yeah?
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.

But.

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…


“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for, Mr. Customer.”
(source)

“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!”
But.

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.

About the author

Doug

I am 48 years old, married with two young daughters. My interests are tennis, reading, computers, politics, and of course cocktails. I run a murder mystery party business that caters to both corporate and private events, Killing Time, murder consultants.

12 Comments

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  • No lime.

    I really would have painted my face blue and started an insurrection if I’d gotten a lime.

    To be honest, I should have know what was coming when she asked me if I’d rather have it like a Manhattan OR like a Martini.

    In fairness, I feel I can be excused for not being on the ball when asked, “would you like it like ABC, or would you rather have it as ABC instead?”

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  • I guess asking for two shots in a water glass would’ve been dumbing it down a wee bit much.

    Had a cute waitress in some anonymous establishment a while ago, wife-unit asked for hot tea. In this neck o’the woods when tea is asked for, it is iced and the only choice is sweet, or not. Waitress left quite befuddled and returned chirping happily twirling a tea bag while holding a cup of hot water: “My manager just told me what you meant! I’ve never done one of these before!” Well, it is a tea-like product, of a sort.

    But one day pretty fades, and then what is left?

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  • I had a very similar experience at a local sports bar. Tried to order some top shelf bourbon neat. Got a glass full of ice that strangled the life out of it. Didn’t say anything because the “bartender” was a sweet little girl and because I was afraid of what sweetie might do to my drink if I complained.

    Have you been known to make bartenders cry on occasion, Doug?

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  • Actually, I’ve never made a bartender cry… roll their eyes and hate me until the tip comes, but never cry.

    I have, however, made other professional people cry from time to time when they fail to meet their responsibilities. I learned a long time ago I know how to be a right serious hardass when I want to. It’s less effective in the long run than you might think.

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