A British pub may look informal but it runs on strict rules, from invisible queues to round-buying, tipping and last orders.
It’s standing room only on Saturday evening at The Guildford Arms, a Victorian-era pub just off Princes Street in Edinburgh. Beneath its ornate ceiling, revelers – three-deep – press towards the wooden bar where ale pumps gleam and bartenders move briskly between pints, wine glasses and whisky measures. There’s the loud gossip of friends, the awkward chit-chat of hovering tourists, and every so often, the sound of a bartender shouting, “Who’s next?”
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