Today's pub was The Standing Order, a so-called "chain pub" (one of many owned and operated by J. D. Wetherspoon) in a converted bank on George Street. I had possibly the worst beer of my life; some glass of malt vinegar brewed by Keystone called Born to be Mild. It was so bad I returned it for another pint of the quite enjoyable Flying Scotsman Ale from Caledonian Brewery. Scotland 2 - England 0. The bartender was kind enough to replace it without charge. I want to order another Born to be Mild just to confirm that it is indeed horrendous, or if I happened to get the dregs of the keg. The old saying "let me lick your ass to get this taste out of my mouth" was never more apropos.
The food was inexpensive and mediocre. The building was huge and featured some interesting ornate glass skylights.
While in the line waiting for service, I was chatting with an older Scots gentlemen. When he found out I was Canadian he (like everyone I've ever met in Scotland) proceeded to tell me a story about his cousins in Canada. This one was sad, because he felt too intimidated to visit his cousin in Thunder Bay when his mother told him that his relative had retired as a Colonel from the Canadian military. I wasn't sure how to explain to him that if the class system existed in Canada, it hadn't yet made it to Thunder Bay, and certainly didn't apply to anyone from our military (regardless of rank).
Earlier in the day we walked by the Cambridge and Oxford bars on Young Street on our way home from lunch at Bar Roma in the West End. The former is famous for its burgers and the latter for Inspector Rebus, protagonist of Ian Rankin's crime novels. We didn't partake of either, yet.
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