The wee things

Tomorrow marks the end of the fourth week of our Glaswegian adventure.  To say we have settled in is an understatement.  It's all the little things that make for a semblance of truly living abroad.

We have eased into a routine.  I am now a member of the athletic club at University of Glasgow, so I make the walk in the morning to torture myself on one of the elliptical machines.  We also make a daily visit to the grocery store.  There is a news agent where we buy the paper.  I have a library card (more on that later).  We're good customers of Oddbins, our wine and whisky connection.  We've had our second meal at The Wee Curry Shop.  We have expanded our circle of friends from the Lucy and Callum nexus point.  We take the time to speak with the merchants and clerks.

Scottish hospitality found us at Callum's birthday barbeque party last Saturday, arriving at 5:00 p.m. and leaving just past midnight.  We followed up that celebration by accompanying him and another 10 friends to The Stand, a comedy club for "Sunday Services with Michael Redmond."  Redmond, a Glasgow fixture, emcees a Sunday smorgasbard of four comics.  The last two comics were brilliant, a Glasgow-born first generation Pakistani and The Boy with Tape on His Mouth. 

Since our return from Spain we have visited the Kelvingrove Museum for the third time, wandered through Glasgow's Cathedral, went through the Hunterian on the campus of the University of Glasgow. 

Highlights of the week:

• We were met by a kilted docent at the Cathedral who offered a tour.  John Geddes, a retired professor of music, who taught for a year at University of Oregon along with lectures at Berkeley, Stanford, and other US universities, led us through the Cathedral.  Surprised that we didn't want to blitz through, we spent abaout 90-minutes with him.  We saw battle glags from the Indian campaign, the Napoleonic wars, the purported burial place of St. Mungo, an explanation of the four symbols of Glasgow, and much more.
• At Jelly Hill my Univeristy of Glasgow identification card caused quite a stir.  Callum: "Jim is planning on staying longer than he let on!"
• John Rae when he happened to see my library card, "How did you get that?  I pay bloody taxes to get one of those!"
• We were among the first customers of a new butcher shop that opened on Byres Road, and found the best Italian sausage I've had since my days in Chicago.

Tomorrow we'll be back at the airport to pick-up my friend Jerry and his girlfriend, Debbie.  We will be cheering for the USA against England in Saturday's World Cup football match.  Rumor is that we won't be able to buy a drink.

Return from France, Two Myths Destroyed

As Andrew dropped us in the wee hours of the morning at our flat, we had a sense of actually coming home.  The flat looked gigantic in comparison to our room at Hotel Agora St. Germain, where you couldn't swing a chat.

Let me debunk a couple of French myths before chronicling the week.

The first, the food.  Granted, we didn't eat at Argent or any three star Michelin restaurants, but the ravings about French food seemed to us to be a bit overdone.  Our best meal was at The French Open, followed closely by a wonderful meal at La Maree Verte.  Granted, grabbing a baguette and a hunk of cheese was a fine alternative to lunch.  And we nearly died drinking hot chocolate at Ladurre and Les Deux Magots (think drinking a liquid candy bar and you get the right idea), ditto the macaroons at the forner locale.

The second myth is the rude Parisian, or the rude French in general.  Didn't see it.  Not once.  The only man who didn't speak any English to us couldn't speak English.  Now, we did go to France armed with a few rudiments.  Bon jour, bon soir, sil vous plait, pardon, merci, and a few useful phrases.  We managed to order most of our meals in French.  The efforts were appreciated, and rewarded with hospitality and warmth.  The Parisians are a bit more formal.  Monsieur, Madame strongly recommended.  But everyone, from our waiters to the hotel staff, to people we met casually were all quite nice.

Here is an overview of the week:

• Luxembourg Garden
• The Church of St. Sulpice (ah, The Da Vinci Code)
• The Pantheon (Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, Emile Zola, Andre Malraux all buried there)
• The Louvre (yes, Mona Lisa is smaller than you'd expect, yet no less magnificent)
• Pompidou Center (rather violent feminist temporary exhibition tempered by the icons of  modern art, Picasso, Gris, Calder, Chagall, et. al.)
• A Seine river cruise (skip it, skip it, skip it)
• Musee d'Orsay (bridges the Renaissance and Old Masters of the Louvre and the modern art of Pompidou with an stunning collection of Impressionists, Gauguin, van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Cezanne)
• The Arc de Triomphe (disappointing, and not only because the grave of France's unknown soldier does not have a permanent honor guard)
• The Champs d'Elysees (soon to be festooned with the cyclists of Le Tour)
• Musee Rodin
• Versailles (the palace, the gardens, the Triannon area)
• Montmartre (including Le Bateau Lavoir, the Laundry Boat, where Picasso and a hoard of other artists lived)
• Notre Dame

...and, The French Open.

Thanks to our friends from Vinci Park, we had wonderful seventh row seats at Court Suzanne Lenglen and admission to Club Des Loges, a clubhouse that featured a full bar, several restaurants, and its own gift shop.  Because of the weather we spent too little time in the former and far too much time in the latter.  It was, as our friends here in Glasgow are found of saying, "pissing down rain."  Oban and Sancerre for yours truly and Lynn did a lot to assuage the disappointment of seeing barely five sets of tennis.  We saw Andy Roddick beat a determined Blas Kavcic in four sets, and then Marion Bartoli and Olivia Sanchez begin their match, soon to be suspended due to darkness.

One of our most memorable moments at the Open was lunch at Club Des Loges.  Our waiter was simply spectatcular.  After my halting explanation of allergies, in French "Je suis allergique aux oeufs et aux noix" he went out of his way to find subsititutes for the fixed menu.  Of the items on the fixed menu, I could eat exactly none of them.  "Do you trust me?" he asked.  I did, and he delivered.  He was assisted by two 15-year old boys who understood much more English than they admitted to, often laughing at the conversation we were having with our new best friend. 

Our only sniff of any anti-American sentiment came from patrons at one of the restaurants.  A German couple and a Canadian couple went on about America a bit.  While I held my tongue, I did not refrain from what I hoped was a withering glance.  Their comments were stereotypical and demonstrated their shallow grasp of our immensely complex country.  The chiding soon stopped and they moved on to other subjects. (While at the Open, in the rain, I wore a baseball cap from one of my reunions, the cap has 75 USNA and an American flag on it.  Wore it proudly.  Received not a single comment or rude stare.)

While I am not suggesting that Parisians or the French absolutely love America, it is rather apparent that they do love Americans, and they adore the American dollar.  The language we heard most other than French as we walked the streets, ate breakfast at our hotel, sat in restaurants or cafes, was English.  And American English.  The tourist is even more valued now, driving a moribund economy.  We come and we spend.

The list of single malts sampled has expanded to seven. 

The quest continues.

Note: Our visit to The Louvre was greatly enhanced by The Teaching Company's course Museum Matserpieces: The Louvre, taught by Professor Richard Brettell, University of Texas at Dalls.

Scottish hospitality...nae myth!

Since the last post we have visited the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum again, this time to see the exhibition, The Glasgow Boys.  The Boys were a group of painters and artists who trained, worked, painted, and exhibited together.  Their heyday was 1890-1900. 

We also visited the Botanic Gardens twice.  The Kibble Plantation is a cast iron and glass enclosure filled with exotic plants, many from Australia.  An interior rainforest.  The wide expanse of the park also included a rose garden, a chronological group of plants and trees from various centuries, even an herb garden.  On Saturday, when the temperatures were in the low to mid-70s, the park was filled with sun-starved Glaswegians.

The weather has been perfect.  Our last bit of rain was five days ago.  Temperatures have been in the high 60s and low 70s.  We have been warned that this will not last, the clouds will return, as will the rain and the chill.  For now the entire city is enjoying this sunny respite.

On Friday, at 4:00 p.m., I walked to Jelly Hill and met Callum and some of his friends.  Thinking this was a stag event, Lynn remained in the flat and wandered about our neighborhood doing a bit of retail therapy.  We finally convinced her to join us and she arrived at 7:30 p.m.  Our plan was to have one more drink and then push off for dinner at The Wee Curry House.  I was now two Hobgoblins (a dark ale) and one Monkey Shoulders (an Islay malt) into the evening.  Our dinner plans were derailed by the suggestion that we could order take-away from Tom and Marion's house. 

When you are invited into a Scot's home, you go.  No questions asked.  Tom and Marion's daughter Iona is a bagpiper of some reknown and she was convinced to give an impromptu concert that evening.  Along with the twin sisters, Morvin and Naomi, the clan lives in a sprawling Georgian manse.  Naturally, a dozen of us crowded into the smallest room, Tom's den, and listened to Iona play a number of songs, including "Scotland the Brave."  Three of us were invited to attempt the bagpipe, Iona handling the fingering while our job was to fill the bag with air and pressing down, keep that air flowing.

Not as easy as it seems.

And to shame of the country, the man from San Diego's produced the most sustained effort, six or seven notes of "Scotland the Brave."

We returned to our flat at 1:00 a.m. on Saturday.

That evening Callum, Callan, John and I met at The Aragon to watch the Champions League final.  Bayern Munich versus Inter Milan.  A wonderful game. "It's hard to cheer for the Germans," I offered.  "Aye," was the general reply, "unless they're playing England, and then we're huge supporters."

The German side and fans were disappointed, much to the delight of most of the crowd at the pub. John put the capper on the evening when he said, "My grandfather told me that the Germans were really disappointed in 1945!"

During the game, Chris, the owner of Jelly Hill walked into The Aragon, announced that he loathed football and couldn't bear to watch a minute of it, and then pointed at me and said, "You, you're coming to my barbeque tomorrow."  And then he left.

So, Lynn and I found ourselves as guests at yet another example of Scottish hospitality.  Old friends and new.  We've noted that our Scottish friends don't seem to be too concerned about "the time".  A 3:00 p.m. start is more of a suggestion.  And they approach life with a bit of serendipity, pulling things together in a rather haphazard manner.  And it all works.

We are off to Paris, the French Open, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Metro, and certainly Deux Maggots.

Until next week, then.

In Search of the Perfect Shortbread

Today marks the end of the first week of our travels.

We were met at the airport by Andrew Kevan, Millenium Executive, the man who drove us to the airport on our return to the United States in January 2006.  Andrew drove us to Glasgow's West End where we were met by Bill, one the of associate's at Nancy Smillie's shop.  Our flat is directly above her wonderful home goods/decorating shop.

The flat is absolutely fabulous.  The location is perfect, or "pair-fect" using a touch of the local argot.  We are a block from Waitrose, a supermarket, and in the other direction, Marks & Spencer.  Think Dean & DeLucca's.  We are also a short distance away from Hillhead station on the subway route.  The station itself is directly across Byres Road from Oddbins.  Oddbins specializes in adult beverages.

Our first day was spent in getting our flat together.  Visits to Oddbins, the grocery store, getting the lay of the land.  We unpacked our five bags and found a home for all our items.  While unpacking I remembered that I had not packed the mic and headphones for our Rosetta Stone French language program. 

The Internet provided the location of the nearest Rosetta Stone kiosk, Silverburn Shopping Centre, and young Owen, the computer whiz at Nancy Smillie's shop gave us the public transport directions to get there.  When we arrived we discovered that the kiosk had been closed since January.  We were then directed to Argos. 

Argos is an interesting operation.  Limited seasonal items are on display with the vast majority of the inventory behind counters.  Using a laminated catalog you select your item, fill out a wee order sheet, stand in a queue to pay, and then wait for the items to be delivered to the counter.  We purchased the needed headset and also a coffee pot.  The coffee pot, on offers (read "on sale") cost £7.79, about $10.00.  Not exactly a Cuisinart but it makes coffee.  (Our French press was a bit wobbly, and I admit to not being the best barista when the French press is my only tool.)  With success on the retail front, we celebrated with a dinner at Cafe Andaluz, a tapas restaurant across the alley from the flat, and the scene of our best dinner in our previous visit to Glasgow.

On Monday we settled in to do some sightseeing.  This required mastering Glasgow's version of the Tube.  It was fiercely complicated.  Essentially it runs in a circle, with an Inner and Outer route.  No matter how bad things get, you'll eventually reach your destination. Painted with autumnal hues reminsicient of the 1960s, the system is dubbed The Clockwork Orange.

During the week, we visited The Glasgow School of Art, the Tenement House, the Willow Tea Room, the Lighthouse Building, the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and in Edinburgh, Gladstone's Land and the Georgian House.  With the Royal High Commissioner in residence at Holyrood Castle, we were unable to tour the Royal's home away from home. 

Glasgow's favorite son (though he became that only after his death) is Charles Rennie Mackintosh, architect, artisit and designer whose work predates the genius of Frank Lloyd Wright.  (While Wright might not have been accused of cheating he was definitely looking over Mackintosh's shoulder for inspiration.)

Our neighborhood boasts a large number of coffee shops.  I'd wager that we might have the most concentrated collection in the world.  We have Atrium, Beanscene, S'mug, Starbuck's, Tinderbox, Cafe Nero within a stone's throw of the flat.  This caffeinated confluence has led me to my quest to find the perfect shortbread.  So far the front runner is the wonderful shortbread served in the Willow Tea Room.  A close second is that old standby, Walker's.

We also met with our friends, Lucy and Callum, at their home pub, Jellyhill, in Hyndland, a ten minute walk from the flat.  We joined them and a group of their friends for a three-hour conversation that included a few jokes, a few stories, and more than a few laughs.  Lynn did her best to empty a bottle of merlot, and my evening was a 5 whisky event.  Bunnahabhain.  I walked home like a soldier.

Global Brand Domination in 6 minutes 27 seconds

In order for you to fully “participate,” you must first watch “The Man Who Walked Around the World.” Your choices: www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnSIp76CvUI (especially if you need subtitles in order to understand someone speaking in a Scottish brogue) or you can go directly to the Johnnie Walker website, www.johnniewalker.com/en-us/home/. I’ll wait.


Done?

An entertaining dram of corporate history, something that at first glance you might shrug off as a longish commercial. Closer study, however, reveals a blueprint on how to achieve global brand domination.

The story of John Walker and the creation of the Johnnie Walker brand of blended Scotch Whisky is a study in entrepreneurship, global brand management, founding a successful family business that evolves into a legacy business, and packaging.

Category Killer: Young John Walker opens a grocery store with the proceeds from the sale of his late father’s farm. Among his wares, locally distilled single malt whiskies. Fretting about inconsistent quality and selling an inferior product to his customers, he mixes a number of single malts and creates a blended whisky. And in doing so, an entire industry is born. As with any new category, competitors abound.

Controlling critical links in the supply chain: John Walker brings his sons into the business, and already at the pinnacle of the industry, the family buys the distillery at Cardhu, securing their own supply while denying this particular “silky single malt” to their competitors.

Create customer evangelists: After dominating local markets the company casts its sights on the world by enlisting the seafaring captains of Glasgow to act as its sales force.

Unique shelf-friendly packaging: In order to reduce breakage and save space, the whisky was packaged in a square bottle, and the tilted label offered a larger type for the name. This unique packaging earned shelf space, always a concern for those who sell products to retailers. Although the word has been used to the point of being trite, the Johnnie Walker bottle is truly iconic.

Updating the brand and expanding the offering: The grandsons updated the label by asking a young illustrator to sketch the famous walking man seen on every bottle of Johnnie Walker. They also expanded the product line: Red Label and Black Label.

Omnipresence: The market expanded to 120 countries and even more labels (Green Label, Gold Label, and Blue Label) were introduced, widening the appeal while creating cachet value. More importantly the brand weaves its way into the fabric of society.

Messaging: Look at the presentations that Steve Jobs makes at Apple. Not a PowerPoint slide to be seen. No bullet points. Images. A message told in images. Visually this short film is stunning, and technically it’s quite breathtaking. Actor Robert Carlyle delivers his monologue walking in the Scottish hillsides in a single-take. Every prop appears when needed, giving visual punch to his story. There’s even a bow to the master of the long, extended film shot, Alfred Hitchcock.

Carlyle walks through the centuries, the tale spanning nearly two-hundred years. Walking purposefully. The traits of the entrepreneur also span those two-hundred years, and longer. A single-minded focus, courage, being able to see beyond today into tomorrow, creating a vision, achieving what others think is impossible, ambition…all are as necessary today in business as they were in 1819 Kilmarnock.

All this from the decision to create a consistent product to meet customer expectations.

A family business that becomes the most recognized brand in its category. Now that’s a story to “stir a Scottish heart,” and the American one as well.

And what the fuck, exactly, is a Perez Hilton?

In another example of free speech for me but not for thee, Miss California, Carrie Prejean, apparently lost the crown at the Miss USA 2009 Pageant because of an answer she gave on the subject of same-sex marriage. She chose to answer the rather strange question honestly, giving an answer based on her own beliefs. For this she was booed (there was also some applause) and has been roundly vilified in the ever vigilant-to-"wrong thinking" press.

Here is her answer:

"Well I think it's great that Americans are able to choose one or the other. Um, we live in a land that you can choose same sex marriage or opposite marriage and, you know what, in my country and in, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman. No offense to anybody out there. But that's how I was raised and that's how I think that it should be between a man and a woman."

Notice, too, how every "um" or syntax error is accurately reported. A bit mendacious, don't you know.

Jumping on the bandwagon is someone named Perez Hilton, though I am fairly certain you won't find that moniker on his birth certificate. And what the fuck, exactly, is a Perez Hilton?

He's a celebrity blogger. Wow, in the words of the Dude from The Big Lebowski, "That must exhausting."

And, being a celebrity blogger qualified him to be one of the judges at the pageant. It must also give you license to dress like a rodeo clown. Through Mr. Hilton we are actually (I'm breathless!) getting inside information.

A twerp co-opts a variation on the name of another equally worthless human being who is famous for being famous and suddenly he is the arbiter of how we must all think?

First, in fairness, let me say that I don't watch the pageant, nor did I watch Perez Hilton's video blog. I read about both.

What troubles me is the tilt towards a flagrant disregard for the First Amendment. I don't agree with Perez Hilton and his ilk, but I can respect that he has formed an opinion based on...well, I'm sure something, critical thinking perhaps, or deep study, reading, maybe. That someone in their early-20s should be held up to such excoriation for expressing her opinion is just plain wrong.

Tolerance, and her answer demonstrated tolerance, is what is called for, not the abandonment of one's own morals, values, and beliefs.

(Not that it is any one's business but I believe that any two people who truly care for and love each other should be able to get married. Doesn't matter the gender or permutations. That is, of course, not the point. The point is, and remains, free speech.)

Our new favorite restaurant

Last Saturday, in a belated celebration of our 30th wedding anniversary, Lynn and I made our first visit to Wine Vault & Bistro. In the course of an evening, five courses and a flight of five wines, this "break the mold" restaurant has become our new favorite.

Chris & Mary Gluck, the owners of Wine Vault & Bistro, have created a new category. The business model is as brilliant as the execution.

Our experience...we ordered the five course Chef's Tasting Menu. There was only one other choice, a cheese plate. This was the first indication that this restaurant was different. Only one choice? Keeps the food costs down, which with a $25 charge for the tasting menu, were passed along to the customer. And who would have thought that fried watermelon, served with a tomato, burrata cheese and micro-basil with a splash of balsamic vinegar, would make an appetizing appetizer? Obviously, the chef, and it worked! As did everything else on the menu. In a time when most restaurants cater to the bland, Wine Vault & Bistro ain't afraid to challenge those taste buds. The rest of the menu consisted of black truffle gnocchi, roasted poussin, brisket with spaetzle, and a flourless chocolate cake.

All accompanied by paired wines. You wander to the wine bar, located in the center of the restaurant, and dutifully hand your check-sheet to the keeper of the grape. He pours your wine in a small carafe and you march back to your table. On the check-sheet are complete, detailed descriptions of each of the wines. Keeps the chatter at the bar to a minimum.

OK, great food paired with perfectly complimenting wines. What's to not like? Well, located at 3731-A India Street, parking is a challenge, but not insurmountable.

Chris and Mary were gracious hosts and have created a wonderful experience.

We learned about the restaurant from Eddie Osterland, America's First Master Sommelier. You won't find the restaurant advertised anywhere. Strictly word-of-mouth, strictly by invitation only through their e-mail list.

If you want to experience this amazing restaurant I would recommend checking out the website, www.winevaultbistro.com and plead to be added to the mailing list.