Scotch bar cites “dress code”, tosses kilted Grinch

So here’s one for ya.
Last Thursday 4.4 million Scots voted in a referendum to decide whether to yank the U outta UK, kick the Queen to the curb and go independent. As yer Grinch is Edinburgh sired and papered, he’s a degree of emotional investment in the decision and no strong opinions on the matter one way or the other. A she-kin reduced the possible severing of a 300-year-old relationship to the quandary any bar rat familiar with Last Call can relate to: “Heart says Yes, Brain says No”.
So I decided with a small group of like-minded Scotsmen and Anglos to meet at our local establishment for some discount libations before motoring over to a swanky whisky joint called Nip&Dram (#nipanddram) to mull early results over glasses of liquid fire culled from their (claimed) 400+ bottles of Scotch. I’d been meaning to attend the place for many months as I’ve had a twenty-year fling with single malt and thought it would be nice to meet some fellow travelers, have a cigar and chill.
It being a special occasion I wore my kilt and sporran with Doc Martens and a black-T.
1030ish we drift down to the Landmark Centre in ones and twos. The first hint something was off came when I discovered a gal-pal and her boy languishing in the parking area; refused entry because he’s in shorts and sandals. “Well… aye, I can see how a small, high end club might have a problem with that. Pity though… maybe next time!”
So yer correspondent rocks up, acknowledges the Meathead in a safari suit at the door, and is ushered inside where he’s greeted by two young women in LBDs and heels, one clutching a menu board. I catch my highland pal’s eye across the room; he’s comfortably ensconced with friends listening to the jazz trio opposite, and I make to join them. At which point menu board tells me I’m not allowed in because I’m wearing shorts. Clearly there’s some sort of misunderstanding, laughs I. Surely you recognize this as a kilt, formal attire worn by the male of the species in the lands from whence virtually your entire product line and by extension your current employment, hail! Let me speak to your manager.

The manager, no doubt a reasonable woman, a seasoned veteran of the higher ends of the hospitality industry here and abroad is just the person to see at a thirsty time like this, no? No. “We have a strict dress code and you cannot come in dressed like that,” says she, as Meathead #2 slips into the shadows off my starboard.
You understand that’s like telling a Javanese guy he’s not welcome at the wedding because he’s wearing a batik shirt, right?
Murrmmurr murmmer murmmmur
I’m still laughing when my pal ambles up, asks what’s the matter and makes to call the owner/partner at who’s invitation we’ve come this night. I tell him not to waste a dime because even if I get the green light I’d rather take power tools to my kilted goolies than put money in these fucker’s pockets. Poor fella has just got his obscenely-priced glass of hooch so I tell him to chill with our friends, I’ll wait car.
My pal the security guard Surya is a bit shocked to see me back so soon. He’d been surprised to see a whitey driving a car, let alone one who climbed out wearing a skirt. So I’d taken a couple minutes to educate him on the kilt in terms he’d grok. When I told him I’d been refused entry he was quite literally gobsmacked: he stood there for several moments with his mouth hanging open.
My buddy showed up not long after with the manager in tow: “She’s going to apologize to you now,” says he.
Which she did. Very sorry for the misunderstanding. Please come back… durka durka durka… and I started to think, okay, don’t be a complete ass, Grinch. If you don’t want to go, be gruff and gracious and accept her apology, she’s just a minion after all etc. And then she said the most amazing thing, words to the effect, “We’ll waive the rules this time” (presumably by order of the boss).
Charming, eh?
So, let me get this straight, you’ll let me in tonight but the next time a sober, well-heeled Scottish guy in a kilt shows up at your bar, whose reason for existing is to market and sell Scottish whisky, you’ll not let him in?
I laughed, told her hell would freeze before I’d set foot in her (strangled obscenity) of a bar. Then loaded up the rest who couldn’t be bothered staying, pointed wheels north and ten mins later landed back in the warm bosom of my local, sharing glasses of Quarter-cask Laphroaig with proper friends.
As for Drip and Dram? Well, y’all can…