Yeah, walk into a pub in a Cornish village, and the juke box stops, the pool balls hang over the holes, all conversation dies, with the exception of a huge bloke with a big black beard, and webbed fingers called Seymore. He puts down his pint, points the rusty home-made shotgun at you and informs you that - "we don't be liking owtciders in these 'ere parts."
Convention then demands that you stride up to the bar, click your fingers, and demand to see the wine list.