Category Archives: Scotland the Brave
Talking Talisker for Burns Night
Tonight is Burns Night, the celebration of the birthday of Scotland’s favourite poet, Robert Burns. (To learn more about Burns Night, see my previous post, here.) To prepare us for this important event, Qype arranged a wonderful evening for Qypers, at Salt Bar in London’s Marble Arch. There, we were to taste three single malt whiskies, courtesy of Talisker, one of the proud single malt whisky labels owned by drinks giant, Diageo.
Needless to say, what with escaping the demands of work and dealing with slow public transport, I was late. I missed the piper who piped beautiful Scottish sounds into this Edgware Road bar. I missed the Address to a Haggis, with sharpened dirk ready to slice into the swollen ball that is a haggis. I missed the smoked salmon blinis that accompanied the Talisker 10 Year Old. But that was all. In true Epicurienne style, and knowing already a thing or two about Burns Night, I caught up quickly once I arrived.
As I entered the ground floor space at Salt Bar I noticed that it was filled with a great many pairs of eyes fixed on a man called Colin. Ah, my fellow Qypers. What a gluttonous bunch we are. Mention food, whisky, cocktails or something else worthy of placing in one’s mouth and you have our full attention. I knew I was in the right place.
Jo from Grayling sped the second whisky of three across to me as I tentatively encroached on the otherwise full bar. You see, Colin was in full swing. Our whisky coach for the evening, he was expounding on the virtues of Talisker. Right now we were sipping on drams of Talisker Distiller’s Edition – a delightful mouthful of deep sm0kiness. Colin told us that it had tones of Muscatel, dates and stewed fruits. All I could taste was a whisky-imbued smokehouse. As I like smoked fish, smoked cheese, smoked ham – this was a very good way to start the evening for this particular latecomer, but I obviously need to work on my whisky palate.
As my fellow Qypers tucked into beautifully-presented rounds of haggis layered with neeps and tatties, I headed once more for Grayling P.R.’s Jo Seymour-Taylor.
“I was late, I know. I’m sorry about that. But do you think I could try the first Talisker? Just so that I can compare.” I asked.
Jo was charm personified, whizzing off to the bar to find me a dram of the whisky I’d missed. When she returned, I sipped on the Talisker Ten Year Old, and sighed.
“It’s very good, a bit salty, still smoky…” I told her, “but the Distiller’s Edition has spoilt me. I enjoyed it so much that this now doesn’t seem half as wonderful as it would without comparison.” Impractical though it may be, I’ve always had expensive tastes.
Jo smiled at my honesty, turning to introduce me to a surprise – the calligrapher named Paul. There he sat, patient with pen and ink as he inscribed hardback notebook after notebook for every guest.
“What’s your name?” he asked, and so I told him, and a few minutes later, my notebook lay amongst the others left to dry. What a superb touch, I thought. To invite people who like to write to an event and then to give them something in which to write! That’s what I call consideration of your audience.
Next, I was introduced to Colin, our expert for the evening. I explained I’d arrived late as I’d had to cross town and he simply replied “shall I teach you how to taste whisky, then?”
I held my glass of the third and final Talisker for the evening - Talisker 57 degrees North, named for the location of the distillery and also its alcohol content (ouch), and followed Colin’s instructions. I placed my hand over the glass and swilled it in circles. Lifting my hand I sniffed and oh my sainted trousers, what an aroma there was now, thanks to all that swilling releasing fumes enough to entice a pack of single-malt – loving hounds from across the nearest three neighbourhoods.
“Now sip, but do not swallow.” Colin was a firm tasting master.
“Move the whisky around your mouth for fourteen seconds.” We counted. Obviously my counting was done in my head, lest I spurt good single malt across my new friends.
“When you get close to fourteen, the flavours will explode in your mouth,” Colin told me. And so they did. It was veritably difficult to hold it in without becoming a human fountain of whisky, but the increase in flavours was worth the heat now pervading my mouth.
“I taste everything like this,” Colin admitted, “Whisky, wine, spirits. This is how you find the true taste of a drink.” Well, I’m a convert. That Talisker 57 Degrees North was something else. It wasn’t exactly sweet, nor was it as robust as the first Talisker of the evening, nor as smoky as the second. Yet there remained hints of smokiness with a touch of peat and citrus. Ah, the citrus was what paired it so well with the final solids of the evening: chocolate mousse, elegantly served in flutes.
Colin was not done with me yet, though.
“Pour a little of the whisky onto the mousse,” he suggested, and I did so obediently. The next mouthful of smooth chocolate had a heady enhancement of whisky. And why not? My mother makes fabulous chocolate mousse laced with Cointreau. Single malt fabulosity drizzled on chocolate mousse was not something I’d tried before, yet it tasted oh so very right. Thank you, Colin. I’m now hooked on chocolate mousse with whisky. How’s that for a new vice?
The next person with whom I chatted was the manager of Salt Bar, an amiable chap called Vansi Putta. We marvelled together at the display of whisky bottles around the bar. Some names were familiar: Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich, Laphroaig, Cragganmore and Dalwhinnie. Others, made me smile with their funny Scottish names, especially Knockando!!
Vansi explained that Salt Bar has a whisky specialism, and they even provide Whisky Tours. For instance, for £25.00 you can go from the Highlands (Clynelish 14 yrs) to the Lowlands (Auchentoshan 10 yrs) to Campbelltown (Springbank 10 yrs) and Islay (Caol Ila 12 yrs) via none other than Speyside (Macallan 10 yrs fine oak).
If you want to go international, you can try Glenfiddich Solaro Reserve from Scotland, Bushmills 3 Wood 16 years from Ireland, Suntory Yamazaki 18 years from Japan, Monkey Shoulder vatted malt and a good ol’ Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel from the States. That will set you back a cool £35.00 a head, but oh, what a journey.
By now I just had time for one of the Talisker cocktails on offer, so chose the Cool Walker. The recipe goes like this:
40 ml Talisker 10 yrs old
15 ml Drambuie
10 ml Lime Juice
10 ml Gomme
Ginger ale
Add ingredients to Boston Glass, shake and strain into highball glass filled with ice. Top with ginger ale.
My, if I’d enjoyed the Talisker drams of earlier, this was a very pleasant surprise. I’d just been telling Colin how my parents have always recommended taking single malt neat, to get the true flavour. But here was a cocktail made with a single malt and it was refreshing enough to drink in summer. So perhaps from now on I won’t view whisky as a drink for the snow days.
On the way out, the guests all received a goodie bag, filled with Talisker treats. There was a small bottle of Talisker 10 Year Old, a Talisker tumbler in which to drink our Talisker, the beautifully inscribed notebook and…
a book to help us celebrate Burns Night in true Scottish style by Burns Night expert, Clark McGinn, who’d earlier read the Address to A Haggis and proffered his dirk:
So, with at least fifty per cent of me coming from The Land of Wee Kilties, tonight I’ll have me a wee haggis, a wee tumbler filled wi’ a wee dram o’ Talisker, and a few mouthfuls of neeps and tatties. But in the interests of keeping my waistline, I might pass on the choccy mousse and save it for special occasions.
Thank you to Qype, Talisker, Diageo, Grayling, Salt Bar, Clark, Colin, Paul the Calligrapher and the Piper Who Was Not Afraid To Bare His Knees In The Cold Night Air.
Happy Burns Night to you ALL!!!
Drams and Dirks and Groaning Trenchers – Burns Night 101
**Portrait of Robert Burns by Alexander Nasmyth, 1787: 2 years before the French Revolution and 11 years after the United States of America won its independence from England. This is one of the best known likenesses of Rabbie Burns and hangs in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.
Burns Night is a timely evening to beat the Northern Hemisphere January blues, when every UK day starts as dark as night and the sun sets at a depressing 4.30pm. Celebrated on 25 January, Burns Night is a particularly special time for Scots, when they remember the birthday of their esteemed poet and fellow countryman, Robert or ‘Rabbie’ Burns (1759-1796).
A traditional Burns Night event will kick off with a few wee drams (small measures) of something toasty like a good single malt whisky, which serves both to warm the extremities and to lubricate the tonsils of those bold enough to recite some lines of fine Scottish literature for their friends, often from the works of Burns himself. Then, moving to the table, the Selkirk Grace may be said before the starter is served.
In Scots:
“Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.”
English translation:
“Some have meat and cannot eat, Some cannot eat that want it; But we have meat and we can eat, So let the Lord be thankit.”
Next, if you happen to know someone who deafened the neighbourhood with bagpipe practice sessions whilst growing up, you would hopefully forget past pain and ask them nicely to attend your Burns Night Supper to pipe in the haggis to one of those famed kilt-swinging tunes, like Brose and Butter. If you don’t happen to have such a friend, you can always book a piper for the night (although I’d recommend doing so well in advance as this is one of the busiest nights of a pro-piper’s year). Where a piper is either unavailable or unattainable, you could always play a CD of a good solo piper. If you choose the latter, I would definitely advise avoiding recordings where guitars and/or brass bands are involved. It won’t provide the same sort of atmosphere.
As the piper plays, the chef will carry the haggis with great reverence to the table, where it is set before the host/ess on a plate called The Groaning Trencher. Then the guest with the greatest penchant for dramatics and vocal cords loosened by a quick few drams will speak to the haggis with Burns’ poem, aptly named ‘Address To A Haggis’.
The mere mention of haggis is enough to make many a grown man squirm, once they understand that it consists of a sheep’s stomach bag, stuffed with the sheep’s liver, lungs and heart, which have been blended with onions, suet, oatmeal and stock. In spite of sounding like a murder scene, it’s really rather tasty, although there is a growing demand for vegetarian versions containing kidney beans, lentils, nuts and vegetables in place of the bodily remains of a former sheep and somehow, I don’t think it’s only vegetarians who might opt for the vege version; the thought of eating a literal stomach full of offal could be understandably off-putting, even to a hardy carnivore.
The usual way to serve a haggis is with neeps and tatties, which to all the non-Scots among my readers translates as mashed turnips or swede (the neeps) and mashed potatoes (the tatties).
Prior to serving, the haggis is ceremonially sliced open with a lethal-looking knife called a dirk, as the piper, chef and performer of the Address receive a thank you dram of good Scottish whisky. Some people pour a little whisky onto their serving of haggis to add to the flavour whilst purists steer clear of such practices, preferring to keep their haggis and whisky quite separate and unadulterated. Either way, the haggis forms the focus of the event that is Burns’ Night.
As whisky and ale flows and wallflowers find the (Dutch) courage to stand up and sing or recite a wee bit of Burns, the evening will progress in a warm haze, and perhaps some fun will be had as the group takes to the floor for some group dancing, known by those from north of Hadrian’s Wall as ‘reeling’ which, after a few exhausting rounds of the room, you will be. And so it is that Burns Night is celebrated to a greater or lesser degree in Scotland and wherever in the world the Scots have dispersed. To illustrate the importance of Burns Night, according to recent analysis of the Burns Economy, there are currently around 10,000 Burns Night Suppers held internationally, a statistic which I personally consider to be conservative. In any case that means that come Tuesday of next week, all over the world there will be many, many thousands of sore heads.
To prepare us for the possibilities of this year’s Burns Night, earlier this week a group of Qypers was invited to a Burns event at Salt Bar in London’s Marble Arch, courtesy of Talisker single malt whiskies. It was a fascinating evening, with excellent whiskies, food, experts and calligraphy. My next post will tell you how it all went, so tune in for more Burns Night fun, including how to get the most out of your dram and mouth-watering suggestions for matching whisky with food.
In the meantime:
- There are eight stanzas to Burns’ ‘Address To A Haggis’ and it takes some working out if you’re not accustomed to reading Scots, so here’s a link to a truly comprehensive Burns site, where the hard words have a multi-lingual glossary attached to them – just click on the troublesome word, which is highlighted, to find its meaning. http://www.robertburns.org/works/147.shtml)
- Did you know that Rabbie Burns wrote ‘Auld Lang Syne’, which so many of us, Scots and non-Scots alike, sing on New Year’s Eve?
- Did you know that Rabbie Burns died of a heart condition at the age of 37? His youngest son, Maxwell, was born that same day.
- In 2009 an STV survey of the public found Rabbie Burns to be The Greatest Scot. Well done, Rabbie! Now, that’s what I call cause for celebration.
North Bridge Brasserie, Edinburgh
Having survived a flight delay and (temporarily) lost bag, by the time I reached the hotel in Edinburgh, Monsieur’s stomach was audibly protesting its emptiness. Mine rumbled back in sympathy, so out we went in search of decent grub. This we found, by chance, at the North Bridge Brasserie attached to The Scotsman Hotel on (strangely enough) North Bridge. How lucky we were.
We didn’t have a booking and this was Friday night, but the staff quickly found us a corner table in the gallery overlooking The Scotsman’s former reception hall. The building had housed the newspaper of the same name for almost a hundred years, prior to being opened as a Leading Hotel of the World in 2001, and the old-fashioned header is still emblazoned on a stone wall outside. It was an unexpected bonus to be sitting in a place of such national significance. The brasserie’s decor had been sensitively restored with dark wood panelling and balustrade around the gallery where we were positioned. Fat square columns of marble rose from the ground floor to the ceiling above us, and Robbie Burns’ portrait was reproduced and hung at frequent intervals around the main dining room. The starchiness of the white tablecloths was enlivened by blood-red glass tumblers and red leather chairs, and when our water arrived, it was (quite naturally) Highland Spring.
Our waitress was superb. If I could give a blog award for Best Waitress 2008, it would be to her. Linda was English but had spent a long time in South Africa and had somehow returned to Edinburgh, where she’d surprised herself by settling, at least, for now. “I fell in love with the place,” she admitted, once she’d answered the most-asked questions about the menu for us, namely “What’s Stornoway pudding?” (black pudding only more delicate), and “What are champit tatties?” (that would be Scots for mashed potato).
The bread arrived – freshly baked caraway or tomato, with a crockery tray of 3 bread condiments: regular butter, tomato and parsley butter or oil and balsamic. So far so good, but the meal itself was nigh faultless. Not feeling up to a full two courses, I chose two starters, instead. First up was one of the best soups I’ve ever tasted: Shetland Mussel, Garlic and Parsley broth. At £5.50 it was a bargain – creamy, light but tasty, with the sweetest little mussels throughout. I was sad to finish the last spoonful.
Monsieur chose the classic smoked salmon, which arrived encircling a pile of leaves, drizzled with lemon and baby capers, and served with onion bread. He’s not easy to impress, but on this occasion, the praise was high. “That’s the best smoked salmon I’ve ever eaten in a restaurant.” he raved. He loved the taste, thought the capers created a perfect accent, and commented that the balance between fish and salad and bread was just right.
As a main course I chose the seared scallops with the Stornoway Pudding that Linda had been raving about, all cooked in a garlic butter. A fresh tomato and shallot salad with champagne dressing was added as a side dish. Linda was right: the Stornoway pudding was much lighter than a regular black pud, and its intensity combined well with the subtle taste of the scallops. There’s not much that can go wrong with a tomato salad. Suffice to say, it was fresh and dressed to perfection.
Monsieur’s plate of tuna steak was served with bitter onions, bearnaise sauce and, Monsieur’s perennial favourite: fries. He’d asked for the steak to be cooked medium rare. In fact, it was more like medium but this wasn’t a serious issue, especially as the fries were so good that he pronounced them ‘home-made’.
We were now feeling so like Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the stomach department that we could not consider a single mouthful of dessert, even though the cider poached pears with honeycomb ice cream and fudge sauce beckoned from the menu. Then again, at a place like the North Bridge Brasserie, it’s always wise to leave something worth returning for.
People in Glasshouses need sleep, too
The Glasshouse in Edinburgh is quite something, according to the awards it boasts about on its website. With a preserved church facade behind which the omnipresent glass of this particular hotel stands, it makes an intriguing first impression. However, this place is a lesson in that piece of wisdom: ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’
Monsieur had already arrived so I was there to meet him. In I went, expecting a “welcome to our hotel. Here’s your room key, there’s the lift and please let us know if you need anything.” I’m quite an independent soul, perfectly capable of wheeling my suitcase in any direction I’m shown, so it annoyed me a bit that a porter grabbed the case out of my hand, insisting on leading me to the room. Whatever. He was likeable and chatty and I soon realised why he’d lent a hand. Our room was miles away.
Note to reader: if you ever stay at The Glasshouse, do not stay in a room beginning with a 1. It means you have to walk some distance along a corridor down which you could have run the 100 metres, past the ‘snug’ (more about that later) and down two flights of glass stairs. I was soon grateful to the porter for guiding me as I would no doubt have been lost in no time. Never have I stayed in such a modern warren of a hotel. Ancient warrens, perhaps, but this was supposed to be a modern luxury boutique of an award-winning hotel and so far, it was doing its best to confuse me.
The room was pretty much as you’d expect: big, white bed, chic mustard walls, funky bathroom panelled with turquoise glass, cool TV, separate stereo, Mitel telephones plural. Then I saw their idea of art: three nude and semi-nude black-and-white photographs of women. I’ve spent most of my life studying or working with art, so believe me when I say that this was borderline stuff. Here I was, with my fiance, for a much-needed weekend of relaxation and the LAST thing I wanted to look at was iffy portrayals of naked female bodies. Give me some of the screenprints from the corridors outside, by all means, or an Ingres nude or a life-size Aphrodite, but this was too in-your-face and I doubt I’d be the only one to say so.
Anyway, the weekend had begun and I wasn’t going to let a couple of bare-skinned babes-on-the-wall worry me. Monsieur and I went out for dinner. When we returned, we walked past the huge cinema complex adjacent to The Glasshouse. A thumping beat grew louder as we approached the hotel entrance. Ah, that would be the night club next door, then. I furrowed my brow. “It’s Friday night, it’s Edinburgh, let’s hope we can’t hear that in our room.” Of course, we could. In fact, I could hear exactly what the words to the songs were. We had Bryan Adams’ ‘Summer of ’69′, Shakira’s ‘Wherever, Whenever’, and if we hadn’t been so pooped we’d probably have sung along and Jump Jump Jumped with the songs as they vibrated through our walls. But it had been a long day, so after moaning a bit about how seldom it is we get a good night’s sleep, what with the insomniac mammoth that lives above us in London, we fell into the baby-soft bed and slept the sleep of the terminally exhausted.
On Saturday we spent a wonderful day exploring Edinburgh and were out again for dinner. Once more, we returned to a hotel with the flashing club lights of its nearest neighbour keeping time with the music pumping out of its doors. It didn’t look good. We were knackered. Would a quiet night be too much to ask? Apparently so. In room 104 the music was even louder than the previous night, but once again, we were so tired that dropping off to sleep was hardly a problem. Not until 2am, that is, when someone pumped up the volume and I was woken by the Jackson Five bleating on about sunshine, moonlight and good times. Under the right circumstances, this is a favourite disco classic. I defy anyone to like it when it wakes you at 2am. I was fit to kill.
Confused again, I battled with my own, already complex thought processes. If I got up to complain, I’d wake Monsieur, snuffling away happily next to me. I couldn’t do that to him, so I wondered instead about quietly dressing and going down to reception, or picking up the phone to the night manager but speaking from the bathroom. There was nothing to be done, however. I knew that already. They’d either move us to a quieter part of the hotel which isn’t really practical at this time of night, or tell me that this is normal for central Edinburgh at the weekend. Squinting at my watch I saw that as long as the club didn’t have extended licencing, I only had another 40 minutes to wait until the music would stop. It was a fitful 40 minutes, but after a bit of ‘I’m so excited… boom boom boom… and I just can’t hide it…’, a song which bore resemblance to how I currently felt, not in a good way, at long last there was silence. Ah, precious sleep. How could I ever take you for granted?
Musical hotel aside, The Glasshouse had a few other surprises. £6.00 per hour to log into WiFi, a £5.00 per room surcharge on room service, over-priced mini-bar, even by Occidental standards, and an astonishing price list of in-room accessories, should one wish to take them home. A water bottle (standard glass with the hotel name on the front) would set you back £15.00. The golfer’s umbrella cost £30.00. The smart Do Not Disturb sign with a SHHHH on the front is £15.00 and the bathrobes seem like quite a bargain, relatively speaking, at £45.00. What’s this about ‘In Room Books’ being £15.00 each? I hunted until I found them. There was one on Edinburgh – hardly surprising, and one on Wicca. Wicca? First naked women and now witchcraft? What on earth would a devout religious couple think of a room like this? Heaven’s to Betsy, they’d run a mile.
As I said before, The Glasshouse confused me. It was smart and luxurious on the one hand, but on the other, it felt as if we had to keep our eyes open at all times, lest we do something that’s free in other establishments, only to be charged for it. The so-called ‘snug’ incorporated a seating area and spherical fire with retro-style hood around which one could sip on drinks from the honesty bar. “Just take what you like and write it in the book,” suggested the porter as we passed by on my arrival, “We’ll add it to your bill later.” We didn’t try it, but it didn’t feel right. Would they charge us the right amount? How much were the drinks, anyway? Meanwhile, in our snazzy bathroom, there was a discreet glass frame suggesting bath treats:
‘For him: a glass of cognac and almond biscotti, £15.00. For her: a glass of champagne, strawberries and cream, £15.00′. Ouch. Read the very, very fine print at the bottom and you’ll see a note: ‘discretionary charge of 10% will be added to your bill.’ Double ouch.
As we left the room to check out, Monsieur noticed his morning paper hanging from the doorknob. A piece of paper stapled to the top right-hand corner bore his name and the word ‘complimentary’. On the bill, he was charged £2.00 for his two ‘complimentary’ papers. We didn’t take it on board because we were still reeling at the receptionist’s attitude.
“Did you enjoy your stay?” she smiled, obviously expecting us to gush approval all over the desk. “Well, actually, I had a dreadful night’s sleep because of the club’s music,” I said, quite calmly. “Yes, well, that’s to be expected,” she began. “We are in central Edinburgh and it’s the weekend, so we can’t do anything about that. When you come next time, just ask reservations to put you in a quiet room.” Gee, thanks a bunch. “Okay, so while we’re here,” I ventured, “do you think we could do our online check-in ?” “No,” she said, helpfully, “that’s not possible. We’re too busy. You can go to an internet cafe or try the business centre.” We passed. As for staying there ‘next time’, we’ll pass on that, too. The Scotsman doesn’t have a nightclub next door (I checked) and it does have a very good restaurant.
