Robert Burns Night in Sacramento

The menu

Although there is not a single drop of Scottish blood flowing through my veins, I have always wanted to host a Robert Burns Supper. Over the years I have attended a few, but always left a little disappointed, like a second stringer watching the starters from the sidelines. I politely nibbled some of the fare, and listened, plaid with envy, as kilted Caledonian Club members rattled off toast after toast. In terms of oratorical exercises, these small toasts were only the warm ups, the real speech was saved for the end when a chosen Scot, bestowed with special power, delivered the Immortal Memory Address to Scotland’s most famous poet. Last week I finally got to give that speech, but I had to slay a beast to do it.

The Art of British Cooking

Haggis. The word alone is dreadful, like some prehistoric bottom feeder found in the depths of Loch Lomond. Essentially, you buy a sheep, sell the wool, and cook the rest.

 Robert Burns was very fond of haggis and one of the last suppers he hosted before his premature death at the age of 37, featured the beast, mashed potatoes and smashed turnips. His friends began a tradition of keeping that last menu alive along with the poet’s songs and poems. Eventually other Scots began hosting their own celebrations and soon Burns Suppers would be held as far as the Scottish Diaspora stretched, but the tradition whispers clear: no haggis, no true Burns Supper.

In 1971, the USDA banned the importation of sheep lungs into the US from the UK, citing the presence of "stomach contents, lesions, and bacteria." Scottish Butchers were dealt another blow in 1989, when the USDA, panicked by Mad Cow Disease, banned the importation of sheep stomachs, the traditional cooking vessel for the haggis, leaving Burns Supper cooks in America at a disadvantage. However, there is a thriving sheep’s paunch black market in some of the farming communities around my home town of Sacramento, California. I also learned that some of the local Mexican Markets sold it “under the counter” if you knew the right code words. 

Haggis on the boil!

When it comes to food, I have a very accommodating wife, but the butchering of a sheep’s heart, tongue, and liver in our kitchen, followed by a day of foraging for stomachs seemed like a bit much to ask.

Luckily, my next door neighbors are superb cooks who are actually more comfortable with 18^th century cuisine than they are with modern fare. Following a classic recipe from Theodora FitzGibbon's The Art of British Cooking, they volunteered to butcher and mince the ingredients of suet, onions, heart, liver, and tongue; mix them with oats, then assemble the haggis by wrapping it in a cheese cloth. The final step was to boil the beast for several hours in a bath of Scotch broth.

The unleashed haggis

Due to busy schedules, we held our Burns Supper on the 15^th rather than the traditional 25^th of January, the poet’s birthday. We decided to forgo formal courses and just bring everything out at once. After a proper recitation of the Selkirk Grace, the haggis was brought out and unrolled from the cheese cloth, tumbling over the platter in an uninspired way.

 I put my nose over the platter, hoping to get a whiff of the "Warm-reekin, rich!" but was indeed disappointed with the faint and dull earthy aroma.

I have problems remembering my home alarm code, but for some reason I have no trouble committing to memory great chunks of Robert Burns' poems, including the Address to a Haggis, the traditional opener of the evening. After the haggis was properly saluted, I began a slow game of procrastination, sampling the other dishes, while keeping one eye suspiciously on the beast who happened to be placed on the trivet directly in front of me.

Scotch Egg dipped in panko

I only wish Burns had written an Address to the Scotch Egg, because the first course was worthy of its own theme. Covered in panko and deep fried, the egg's yolk mixed perfectly with the sausage encasement especially when dipped in mustard sauce.

The boiled potatoes were processed through a ricer and mixed with sour cream, cream cheese and a sprinkle of paprika then baked in a ramekin. Again, worthy of an ode. The vegetable course, roasted brussel sprouts, in lieu of the traditional smashed turnips, was tasty and seasoned perfectly. However, I could not put off tasting the beast any longer. It was time.

Several of the guests had sampled the haggis and a few polite reviews emerged:

"Interesting"

"Humm, this is a little different"

"And I will come again my love"

After a mighty gulp of 21 year old Scotch, I took my first bite, and it was just wrong. Something was horribly wrong. My mouth watered, not from delight, but in preparation for projectile vomiting. I quickly downed some water. To be honest, not every person at the table had my reaction. One guest was effusive in his praise and gave proof to his testimony by devouring two large helpings. Most politely nibbled, then took quickly to their side dishes. Inspired by old John Barleycorn, we ventured forward into the evening with sangs & clatter. 

The toast to the lassies & laddies

One friend stood and strummed a guitar before breaking into a lovely rendition of the classic Burns' song: My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose. There were the traditional toasts to the lassies, and the lassies response with a toast to the laddies. Both were appropriately short but plenty bawdy, just as Burns would have liked it.

Finally, before the dessert course, it was time for me to deliver the toast to Robert Burns --- The Immortal Memory. 

Mindful that I had just put some of my dearest friends through a wicked culinary adventure, the toast was short. I spoke about the things that Burns loved: the hearth, the family, the pals, and the utter beauty of simplicity.

I spoke briefly of his enemies: religious duplicity, debt collectors, and foes of free thought. But most of all, I spoke of how delighted he would be to see good friends gathering in his name, sharing the food and drink he loved, and singing the songs and poems he wrote so long ago. Of course we closed the evening with Auld Lang Syne, and all agreed to meet again next year with or without the beast. 

Some of the lads and lassies

P.S. Shhhh! I am secretly seeking advice on how to improve the American version of the haggis for next year. Any suggestions? Haggis, we may just meet again.