Politics with great flavour

Ithink about food quite a lot. Not quite as often as I eat it, it must be said, but often enough for it to be designated as closer to an addiction, obsession or merely nearer to the greatest pleasure of human existence than is considered healthy by those who waste precious eating time pondering on such things for the (alleged) benefit of the rest of us.

Living to eat rather than eating to live is, of course, frowned upon by many of these worthy types but in the present state of affairs, I reckon musing tenderly on the plus points of a Fisher & Donaldson’s fudge doughnut or weighing up the pros and cons of a “peh” versus a bridie are some of the least reprehensible actions to be taken in the name of the public good.

Chips with everything, as Arnold Wesker memorably titled his most famous play, may seem like a typically British (and particularly Scottish) way to satisfy the inner man or woman.

But with Brexit, Indyref 2, phantom trade treaties and all-too-likely billionEuro fines, it has come to my attention that two of our most recent – and probably only – contributions to international goodwill come in the form of exporting the delights of fries to Germany. And cream teas, on the “jam tomorrow” principle, obviously….

We may talk dreamily of Aberdeen Angus and the multifarious malts and blends that make up the Scottish whisky industry but apparently, the Germans are going ga-ga for fish suppers and scones.

If Nicola Sturgeon is determined to take us down the yellow brick road to the independent land of Oz, via the sunny uplands of European single market membership, she might have a few more bargaining chips with Frau Merkel than she hitherto suspected…

Or perhaps Theresa May could send a few single fishes to potential investors via the Queen on the new, multimillion-pound royal yacht that Boris and Liam seem so keen to commission to reveal Britain’s “soft power”. Only it’s not the power that’s soft, lads…

Even the eventual occupant of the Elysee Palace might be swayed by the arrival of the Caledonian version of the souper au boudin blanc although any pretensions to truly cosmopolitan internationalism in these parts may be somewhat undercut by the trenchant statement once overheard in a Dundee eatery: “Eh dinna want French frehs; Eh want chups.”

And just in case you thought that chips and curry sauce was a particular combination invented in the deep-fried depths of Glasgow, let me disabuse you of this.

Berliners love their chips with a dollop of curry. Immigration isn’t all bad then…

I offer you this information in the wake of a delightful stay in the Czech capital of Prague, not part of the EU of course, but well up there when it comes to both political upheaval and hearty scran.

Dumplings a’weys, accompanying every kind of meat known to man (and quite a few you don’t want to know too much about).

Take bacon dumplings. I did, frequently. They are so delicious and so magnificently bad for you that I’m surprised they weren’t invented by us Scots, even without the cliché of deepfrying.

And by heck, do they know what to do with a sausage in their neck of the woods, usually accompanied by an impressive pool of mustard and a lake of beer.

We spent some time, in between a’ the culture, in a marvellous hostelry called the Golden Tiger where you go in, sit down at a row of battered trestle tables rich with the spills of millennia and within 30 seconds or so find yourself in possession of a pint (approximately) of foaming Pilsner.

That’s all they sell. No namby-pamby cocktails, wines or artisan gins. No craft ales steeped in liquorice casks or what remains of vats of bourbon.

Just beer. And the minute you caught a glimpse of the bottom of the glass, another appeared, as if by magic.

There was a gnarled cove with a face like a relief map of the Urals employed to do nothing but pull pints and a waiter who worked out what you owed by scratching lines on little bits of paper that ended up soaked and stuck to the table. It made the Star Wars bar look like the Waldorf Astoria.

Never having been much of a beer drinker, apart from pints of Guinness when I was a student in a vain attempt to make myself interesting to the vets and agrics with whom I then hung about, it was a bit of an eye-opener. I loved it.

Although I do dimly recall, probably through a glass darkly, that I once spent an evening at the Oktoberfest in Munich imbibing buckets of the stuff and rapidly coming to the finely honed philosophical conclusion that it was deeply significant that the Oktoberfest was held in September.

Not knowing what day it is is bad enough. Not knowing what month it is is getting down to some serious application of alcohol to the parts that other beers can, very definitely, reach.

It made the Star Wars bar look like the Waldorf Astoria

Scones could aid Brexit negotiations with the EU, according to Helen.