Well, well, well, OIL Bar. I walked in hoping for a civilized drink and a pleasant evening, but instead, I got an unexpected citrus shower and customer service that felt like a live episode of Fawlty Towers: The Remix. The staff all seemed to be around 20 years old, so ordering a simple round felt more like overseeing a sixth-form work experience project. Lots of enthusiasm, little experience. I ordered a pint and a lemonade. The bartender—who looked like Moaning Myrtle on a bad day—started pouring and somehow managed to splash the lemonade all over me, completely soaking me. I stood there smelling like a discarded candy while my dignity faded fast. Normally, most places would apologize prof...
