I'M a man that likes a suit. Single-breasted, double-breasted, two-button, three-button, wool, corduroy, cotton, linen. In the world of the suit there is no end of choice, of difference. One unifying feature is the breast pocket. This oft overlooked pocket once had a greatly important use: it was the receptacle of the hanky or the pouchette.
I love a pouchette. Nothing screams dandy more than a 12 inch floral square of silk leaping out of the breast pocket. The flash of colour can transform the blandest suit into a work of sartorial sensation. I exhort all men to embrace the pouchette, t
he more colourful the better. But remember one adage my dear friend Andrew Mackie taught me as I attempted to blow my nose on his gloriously gaudy silken handkerchief. Whipping away the silk and offering me a plain white hanky from his trouser pocket he uttered the immortal words "one for show and one for blow".
Hearty toast to Clara and the Grosvenor Last week death was on the agenda. I'm afraid this week is no different. Clara expired last Sunday. And with her passing a discernible part of my history, of my life and that of Glasgow's West End passes too. Clara ran the Grosvenor Cafe in Ashton Lane. The Grosvenor was an institution, a special place full of special people. I first walked in there was I was but a lad, a fresh-faced 16-year-old.
It has to be the most egalitarian place I have ever experienced. Professors would sit cheek by jowl with newspaper vendors; hippies with musicians; students with blue-rinsed Kelvinside ladies. Lovers would huddle in the corner booth, their passion dampened by the strict table-sharing policy. It was truly a special place. And special food.
I loved it. Egg burgers: quite simple a burger with an egg – a genius idea; massive croissants filled with unctuous oniony tuna mayonnaise; half a pizza slice with an egg – why had no-one else thought of that? (Most noticeable of all, no chips: brave for a west of Scotland cafe in the Seventies.)
And the soup. What soup! Beef and tomato, minestrone and good-old fashioned Scotch broth. Clara and I bonded over soup. I doubt I would be half as good at soup-making were it not for her. Seldom a day went by when I wasn't in the Grosvenor, often twice, more likely thrice daily. Clara and Renato, her brother, and their sister Lilliana became friends, surrogate family.
My mother and Clara had a great deal in common. Apart from being great at cooking, they were both immigrant matriarchs who worked long, hard days to provide for their families. Clara looked at me with a loving mother's eye; the only difference between Clara and my mum is that I could charm Clara. And in the last few years Clara's daughter and I have struck up a close friendship; Roberta feels more like a cousin than a friend; it's that sort of familial affection that extends from my formative years in the cafe.
Clara hadn't been keeping well. No doubt the unforgiving and unrelenting daily grind had taken its toll. And now she has gone. The Grosvenor closed years ago, Glasgow's West End started to change; and so did my world. And now Clara has gone the change feels definite, complete, final. I saw her last summer. We had tea just off the Byres Road. I felt like that 16-year-old boy again. I felt young and innocent. The only difference between the first time I saw Clara and the last time was the tears in my adult eyes. Goodbye Clara. And thanks for the soup.
Salt of the earth snack from a bygone eraYears ago, when I first became self employed, I found myself trudging the city streets with a few quid in my pocket and hope in my overly optimistic heart. I used to force myself to leave the house to motivate a day's job-hunting ahead. This tireless pursuit of non-existent work needed to be balanced with unnecessary expenditure.
While at home I spent next to no cash; out and about, coffee and, more importantly, lunch required money invariably, money I did not have. I managed to find cheap eateries, discounted sandwiches and the like. Occasionally, very occasionally, when my ship came in and I snared some work I would treat myself. I would wander up to the kirk of consumerism, Selfridges. I would wander through the food hall to a small cafe that sold something called salt beef.
All my years in Scotland and I had never heard of such a thing as salt beef. Corned beef, yes, but never salt beef. I loved salt beef. On rye. With mustard. My entire world was complete for the 10 minutes or so it took me to consume carnivorously the deliciously rich, flaky beef while chomping on a comically large gherkin. It truly was a treat. The years have since passed and circumstances have changed. I no longer find myself wandering the streets waiting for work. But, for old time's sake, I popped into the salt beef place on Wednesday morning to enjoy a late breakfast/early lunch.
I ordered my usual sandwich and coffee. I was all anticipation and saliva. It is at this point you'd expect me to tell you about how delicious the sandwich was, how the years rolled back and I felt at one with myself, my world complete for those 10 minutes. Unfortunately that is not how I felt. The sandwich was fine. Tasty enough. But that was about it. It seems life, like salt beef sandwiches, has moved on.
Holyrood's alive and kickingFor me this has to have been the most fascinating two weeks in the life of the Scottish Parliament. A man on the telly suggested the other day that perhaps the Parliament in Holyrood was broken beyond repair as the post-mortem of the first failed Budget was being carried out. I have to confess that, tough though it must have been for all the MSPs involved, I hailed these events as the maturation of democracy in Scotland.
The system was set up to favour coalition government, consensus politics, where the single most important factor is the future of the nation. Some may complain that this allows small groups, like the Greens, to try to exploit their position, but that is the nature of the system. And the subsequent smooth passage of the bill through Parliament shows that not only is the system working, it is shining.
