Looking down over the land with an air of regality tempered with warmth the Castle of Edinburgh is a hard sight to ignore no matter what vantage point you have in the city. It is delightfully difficult to get lost with such a lovely reference point despite how inebriated you may be at any time of the day – a treat very much appreciated by its residents for quite a few centuries.
I was fortunate enough as a flight attendant to be working an Edinburgh trip for the first time where I would have a full day to explore this wonderful city just as the famous Fringe Festival would be coming to a close. The endmost festivities were going full force and for a group of cabin crew companions wanting to make a diurnal reconnoitre of the Scottish heritage and uncover any party ambiances around it was a gift wrapped up with a bow similar to those found on fancy whisky bottles.
The Fringe Festival is an entertaining jubilee that takes place for almost a month where artists, theatre crowds and those looking to engage in some tom-foolery come together to showcase some performance pieces in remembrance of the European Culture that came through in a spectacular fashion in the wake of World War Two.
It all began not too long ago in that memorable summer of 1947, when the city of Edinburgh put on an international festival dedicated to music and art in order to start a bright new chapter after that unfortunate business of world war two. Artists were only able to perform through strict invitations from the organisers, which did not bode well for the eight theatre groups whom had arrived without invitations or any inside friendships with the managers / bouncers. They were told with a sneer to take their work elsewhere.
And thus the Fringe Festival was born.
It was a roaring success and so in memory of that glorious day where people did whatever the hell they wanted to entertain the crowds, the Fringe Festival was created and it keeps up the tradition of including anyone who wants to do anything to enthrall any willing spectators, so long as it’s safe and legal (or at least maintains such an appearance).
In keeping with the true spirit of the Fringe Festival I did not happen to see any main pieces that took place within the Theatre Halls or Huge Event stages –i.e. the sanctioned Festival space – but that was mainly because I had arrived on the last day and they were either finished or fully booked. There were plenty of entertaining pieces happening on the walk around the city however so I didn’t feel too left out.
There were capers and japers aplenty, from stilted clowns to comedy performers using unicorn heads and swing ropes as props, bands playing music of some eerie genre I couldn’t quite categorize, and even some bag pipe players with fire shooting out of their instruments in case someone would accuse the whole affair of being boring. But for me, the biggest moment of entertainment was created by the very colleagues I was traveling with. One individual in particular named Avinash.
We were all feeling the rumblings of hunger and the growing sense of soberness from spacing out our drinks during our forays around Edinburgh and by a drunks luck we happened to stumble across a delightful whisky bar and restaurant which offered food and drinks a-plenty; The Royal McGregor.
We were all seated by our jovial waiter (whose name I honestly cannot remember but we’ll call him Alastair for this story) at a table and informed of the specials that evening, namely the Haggis dish that was being served.
Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish containing a sheep’s “pluck” – the heart, liver and lungs mixed with some onion, suet and spiced with salt and a bit of stock – all wrapped up in what is usually the animal’s stomach but today was made “artificially.” At which point we agreed to stop asking questions. This was a very interesting concept of a concoction for each of us since no one at the table could boast anything near to a European lineage in anyway but after trying roasted crickets in Bangkok I was pretty much up for anything, even if turned out to be a lesson on never ever trying it again.
I had remembered reading about Haggis in books as a child and being queasy at the illustrations, so I felt this was the only real opportunity to challenge that adolescent assumption. We all ended up ordering a side dish of Haggis to go with our main meal.
And then we were asked for our drink preferences.
Now I had been itching to try some real whisky in a city whose people had more of it than water in their veins, so when I saw there were whisky flights available at a decent price I eagerly brought forth the idea of a small impromptu tasting.
We had already ordered other drinks in addition to our meals so most of the others felt that their cocktails would be enough for the evening but one other man was happy enough to join me in a sophisticated round of tasting…or so I thought.
Enter Alistair from stage right.
Avinash looks up at him with a small smile.
“Yea, we’ll have this set of whiskies please, and a coke for the mix.”
I thought I misheard; maybe he wanted some cocaine with his tasting? That sounded more reasonable that what I first assumed…but no.
The next few seconds were akin to watching a poorly budgeted horror film where the demented convict suddenly appears behind the lady and she hasn’t seen him yet and it’s totally obvious to the viewer just how f*cked she is at that moment but she’s still tragically unaware? My friend may as well have been trying to escape the situation in a pair of ridiculously tall stilettos.
Our table was engulfed in a bubble of silence as Alastair’s bushy brows knit together in a small frown.
He asked, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Ha-ha he’s just joking right mate?” I exhaled out the one rushed breath I had been holding in as I looked at my confused colleague dart his eyes between the two of us. I saw him open his mouth to reply and I began praying for death.
“Sorry, what mix is normally supposed to go with these kinds of whiskies then?”
Behind Alistair’s eyes I could see every one of his kilted ancestors rolling in their graves. In Scotland – or anywhere that prides itself on creating very fine whisky – you never ever even whisper about mixing the heralded liquor with anything. It would be akin to mixing a fine vintage of red wine with, say, coca cola, or perhaps a stout full brimmed Lager with….coke.
It’s just not done.
Alistair managed to edge out a reply, “Well sir, ah, normally these whiskies are sampled…um….without any accompanying soft drink, or any mixes really…nothing at all.”
Now it was my friends turn to furrow his brow in confusion.
“Well then what-” he began to query, but my stomach was already so knotted enough from the stress of this interaction and the description of the Haggis that I couldn’t let this conversation take its due course.
“We’ll have the Flights and just a bottle of coke on the side for my friend here, these four” – I pointed at the names of four malts on the menu “-look divine, thank you very much.”
Alastair briskly walked-ran from the table, likely barely holding back screams.
The culprit in question for his hasty departure looked at me with befuddlement in his innocent eyes, “Didn’t you want anything to have to help mix with the whisky?”
“Thank you darling but I’ll be alright”, I replied. “And for the sake of Alastair’s heart would you maybe not mention whisky and coke in the same sentence together? The Scots are a funny people.”
He nodded his head sagely to this.
When Alastair came by with the preliminary drinks and starters we all eagerly dug in and commented on how the Haggis was actually quite a delightful dish and that my childhood fear was largely unfounded – like in most cases.
And then came the moment Alistair was to live through the horror story small Scottish children told each other huddled around campfires; those monsters who don’t drink their whisky neat.
After clearing away our plates he brought forth the four drams of “expertly chosen malts” along with a jug of fresh water and a small bowl of dark chocolate to act as a palate cleanser. With his shaking hands he also slowly lowered one lone medium sized glass bottle of Coca-Cola onto the table. He stepped back, hesitating as if through some sick fascination he wanted to watch… before his dread got the best of him and he retreated to the safe space behind the bar out of sight.
To his credit, Avinash made an effort.
He attempted the tasting without mixing the coke in the drams by first taking gentle nips of the cultured grains and then giving it a few prolonged seconds before he took a deeper gulp of the dark sugar water.
I could see his face contort slightly though after each burning sip of the whiskies, and after I had sampled my fare share and divined that they were indeed of a heavenly class, gently told our erstwhile adventurer that he could mix the whiskies with coke if he wasn’t enjoying them by themselves. He looked at me gratefully and left me with two of the better quality drams to enjoy while he poured forth the brackish liquid into the remaining whisky holders. My inner senses and Alistair’s ancestors both reflected a look that would have inspired Edvard Munch no doubt at this act, but I was glad he was able to start truly enjoying the tasting for the first time.
From behind the bar came a whisper of a whimper.
This incident came up a bit in my mind a bit the next morning when I went for a run around the city’s heritage spots- which it has in plentiful abundance and which I cannot recommend enough that you go visit – that at the end of the day we can’t restrict people on what makes them happy. Did my coca cola connoisseur friend do the tasting “correctly”? No not really, not at all, but he did try and he knew what was going to make him happy. And that’s all that really counts in the end…even though he ordering a second bottle of coke might put Alistair and every whiskey distiller in Edinburgh into an early grave.
They do say that if you hang around the Royal McGregor at night you can still hear the wails of poor Alistair as he came to clear up after us and had to wash commercial black syrup out from the drams of the best damn whisky I’ve ever savoured.
