Haggis and a Book (Two Books, Actually)

Last Thursday before the symphony concert, I trekked out to The Haven — which bills itself as "New England's only Scottish restaurant" — for my first taste of haggis. It involved taking the subway past Symphony Hall, and I wasn't sure how long it would take, so I allowed plenty of time. My reservation was for 5:30, and after a ten minute walk from the end of the subway/trolley line, I was outside the restaurant just after 5:00. So I walked around the area until 5:30.

I had the haggis and neeps for my starter. It was pretty good. The haggis reminded me of the meat stuffing I had had on Thanksgiving more than anything else. I was kind of disappointed that it didn't have a stronger flavor of organ meats, but it was enjoyable. For the main course I selected "White Pudding Sassitch and Mash: House-made chicken bread milk sausage with grilled eggplant, roasted farm tomato, herbed mash, roasted chicken jus." I didn't notice any tomato, but under the sausage and mashed potato there was kale, or some such green veggie. The white sausage was spicier than the haggis. It wasn't half bad, but I was getting full, so I didn't finish the veggies so as to leave room for dessert. And dessert had to be that new Scottish specialty, a deep fried Mars bar. It came with a generous mound of whipped cream on the side and was surprisingly good. The fried batter actually went well with the melted chocolate and caramel, and the whipped cream cut the richness of the bar.

The owner, Jason Waddleton — a Scot whose dad and brother work on oil rigs — stopped by my table to get acquainted. He inquired about my book (as Seth had done at Scollay Square). I'm reading Outliers, and I was just reading the chapter about the ongoing feuds in Harlan County, Kentucky, and elsewhere just west of the Appalachians from West Virginia to Georgia and Alabama. The author's thesis is that the people are descendants of a wave of immigrants from the borderlands of England, Scotland, and Ulster, who brought with them an "honor culture," — found also in Biscay, Sicily and elsewhere — which requires a violent response to insults, slights, and injuries. That was rather an unfortunate coincidence, but he took it well; and I at least managed to soften the blow by telling about the Koreans who crashed airplanes because the pilots had a culture which forbade the co-pilot to tell the pilot he was making a serious mistake.

After dinner, I took the bus back to Symphony Hall (20¢ cheaper than the subway) and got there in good time for the concert.

A couple of days ago, I finished reading The Rest Is Noise, about classical music in the context of 20th century history and culture. It's worth reading if you're interested in classical music. I had developed the custom of reading it during dinners alone at home, mainly because I didn't have any other time in which I was getting around to it. Now I should probably select another of my partially read books for reading. Restaurant books need to be the sort of thing you can dip into and put aside at any point when the next course arrives; but at home, I can go for longer passages and stop whenever I want to, because the meal is on the table when I begin reading, and I can read all I want between mouthfuls of food, rather than having to set the book aside when the food arrives.