Four Hours in Glasgow - Part 4

Down the block there was a sign for a three-course lunch—-"only four Pounds ninety-five"-—and a picture of a fish pointing up the stairs. “Best Fish Tea in Britain” it said. It took me a moment to clear the idea of a tea bag full of guppies and I started climbing. I waited at the landing while old lady to stumbled down the long staircase and then for an old man to stumble up them. These did not seem like good omens but I entered anyway, possessed by the strange “who cares” courage that can take me without warning. Actually I think the main source of the courage was a desire to relieve myself of the weight on my back. Despite Glasgow being a big, bustling city I couldn’t find anywhere on the streets to sit down. There was nowhere to stop and pull out the “Let’s Go” which was much bulkier and more embarrassing than the London A-Z which, I discovered, was carried by pretty much everyone and not just tourists.

Someone else's photo of Fish Tea with Mushy Peas.

Either way I entered “The Tree’s Family Restaurant” and sat in the no-smoking section because the table was smaller.

A young, sort of tough looking, blonde waitress was at my table almost immediately. She asked what I wanted to order in a startling thick brogue. I wondered if there was a physical border you could cross and hear one dialect on one side and one on the other.

I asked how the three-course lunch worked and, like most people who have been asked a question by me, she answered by saying “What?”

I asked again, paying more attention to my lips and teeth. I ordered the soup (scotch broth of course) and fish and chips. While I waited for the soup I slipped the “Let’s Go” out of the bag and quickly memorized the path to Glasgow Cathedral. The soup came. Having not eaten since the night before, the soup felt like life in my stomach. It was warm and thick and salty and I scraped the bowl of its last bits. I thought about, but decided against, holding my fork in the right hand.

I felt very American and I was sure everyone in the restaurant (all fifteen senior citizens) would notice if I did it wrong. I think I cleaned that plate cleaner that I have ever left a plate before, and it was time to choose dessert. I asked for the trifle and she said, “Aye.” My heart leapt. I had left London after all.

When the trifle was gone I suffered a small panic attack about the acceptability of my English money. I knew that English and Scottish bills are interchangeable but there was still that fear. The bill came on a plate and I covered it with a ten-pound note. Just as I was about to worry about whether I was supposed to carry it to the cash register, a waiter snatched it up and replaced it with a Scottish fiver. I put the purple bank note into the secret compartment of my wallet with my leftover American money, re-strapped my backpack and bounced down the stairs.

I was temporarily elated as I started towards the cathedral. It had been a long time since I had eaten such a complete meal and the feeling of peas in my stomach warmed against the rain.