SINCE ONE must often escape the confines of home to find inspiration, last week the anti-man-about-town bolted from Silicon Valley to Edinburgh, Scotland, a city fertile with culinary and literary backdrops. The muse emerged almost immediately.
First of all, no scribe worth his laptop would possibly infiltrate Scotland without consuming haggis, that country’s traditional cuisine. Often described in more gruesome details than anyone wants to know, haggis, so it is said, contains a sheep’s ground innards—pieces of the liver, heart, lungs or whatever is left—mixed with oatmeal and secret spices.
Traditionally, haggis is boiled inside a casing made from a sheep’s stomach or bladder, presented on a plate and then ceremoniously escorted into the dining room, complete with a bagpipe player sounding off like there’s no tomorrow. Scotch whisky is downed, and the ground haggis is then served in any number of formulations.
At the Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh’s famous historical landmark, we witnessed a haggis the shape of which defies any less-than-naughty description, even for this column. But as tradition goes, bagpiper Ian Grant, a local independent musician and storyteller, came thundering into the dining room, clad in complete Scots military attire, playing the pipes so loud we couldn’t even think straight. It was fantastic.
Behind him, the chef carried in the plate of haggis and placed it on the table, flanked by two glasses of Glenmorangie. To complete the ceremony, Grant then recited the legendary “Address to a Haggis,” a hysterical Robert Burns poem dedicated to the famed cuisine.
Delivered in old Scottish, the poem confounded a few members of our dinner party, who whispered that they had problems with Grant’s accent. “No worries,” he said. “Even the Scots can’t understand the words.”
Turns out all the horror stories I had heard about haggis were nonsense. The Balmoral’s Michelin-star chef Jeff Bland prescribed tasty plates of haggis with “neeps and tatties” in the traditional style. The ground haggis is served with a separate layer of mashed potatoes on top, accompanied by turnips and a whisky sauce. Actually, the ground meat doesn’t taste that much different from a microwave peroshki but with a fresher menagerie of spices. It was quite superb.
The Balmoral itself is one of the most famous hotels in all of Scotland. When it re-emerged anew in 1990, Edinburgh native Sean Connery showed up and officially reopened the property. The hotel is popular for business meetings or for older Europeans visiting their sons and daughters studying at Edinburgh University.
The Balmoral’s famous clock tower is a reigning symbol, directional marker and dependable timepiece for the entire city. “People in Edinburgh see the hotel more as a monument,” said general manager Ivan Artolli. “During the winter, the clock was broken for two days, and we had 575 phone calls.”
Even better, as I began writing this column in room 542 at the Balmoral, I knew I was not the first scribe to take inspiration from this hotel. In a now-famous yarn, author J.K. Rowling moved into room 652 for a few months in order to complete the last Harry Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. When finished, she left a signed statement on a bust of Hermes, which is no longer there. No one will say how much she paid, but it’s said she didn’t get her deposit back after damaging the bust.
Rowling also famously wrote in a nearby cafe, the Elephant House, where she typed away in a back room overlooking the Edinburgh Castle. It was here that the first few Harry Potter novels came to light. A smattering of newspaper clippings adorns one wall of the cafe, documenting her presence.
In one article, Rowling explains she just sometimes has to leave her home in order to get inspired. I think I know what she’s talking about. Now, if she would just write Harry Potter and the Deathly Haggis, then I will be inspired to read one of her books, and perhaps even wait in line at midnight when it goes on sale.
