Biased Blow-By-Blow - 2019 World Championship Road Race

Introduction

Bicycle races can be fun to watch. Sometimes, though, it’s like the Super Bowl … super boring because it’s a blowout. In cycling, this generally happens when one team (usually Ineos) dominates. Teams or riders dominate when they’re doing a better job of doping than the others. Announcers stand by and pretend nothing is amiss. I don’t pull punches like that … in fact, when I get frustrated I start throwing punches all over the place, practically at random. I haven’t had to do that lately, because … well, who knows, could the sport be cleaning up? It’s possible. Or maybe I’m sinking into complacency.

Well, I don’t have Ineos, or any other trade team, to kick around today because it’s the World Championship road race, where riders represent their countries instead. (At least, they’re supposed to.) But you can bet my coverage will be as biased and unprofessional as ever.  For example, I would love it if the defending world champion, Spain’s Alejandro Valverde, totally sucked today because he’s a filthy doper. So read on, for the “real” (i.e., my version of) the story.

2019 World Championship Road Race – Yorkshire, England

“Having a teammate would certainly help at the finish,” the announcer says as I join the action. His Antipodean voice sounds both sad and playful, like a character, Dumbeldork or whatever, from a Harry Potter book. So far I’m not hugely impressed with his tactical insight.

Well, our recent Vuelta a España winner, Primoz Roglic, is dropping out. He probably just showed up for form, to make an appearance, like those dead weight guys on your work conference calls. It’s frigid and raining here … at least half the peloton will drop out. The race is brutally long: 261 km, almost 162 miles.

“Is there a possibility of Peter Sagan winning a fourth title?” the announcer asks. Um, yeah, I think we can assume there’s at least a possibility.

Right now the entire peloton is together and they’ve completed the BS just-add-mileage point-to-point part of the race, and now face seven laps of a hilly circuit.

Wow, Philippe Gilbert (Belgium) is dropped! They’re saying he crashed earlier. I don’t need to admit this, but he was my top pick to win today, after he looked so good in the Tour. I guess I’m no oracle.

Nairo Quintana (Colombia) is with Gilbert, and I’m going to pose this question: “Is there a possibility of Quintana even finishing today?”

Okay, Gilbert is quitting. “Oh, dear, Gilbert’s dreams are over,” the announcer says lugubriously. “He’s crying like a little bitch, he can’t stop.” (I’m paraphrasing.)

I don’t know, Gilbert doesn’t look like he’s crying to me … he just looks cold. “He’s inconsolable,” the announcer goes on. How can he say that, when nobody is actually trying to console Gilbert? Speaking of inconsolable, I’m not super stoked with the footage today. We aren’t getting any feeds from motorbikes because the drivers and cameramen don’t feel like being out in the rain. Perhaps eventually their bosses will make them get their asses out there.

In 1986, the Worlds were in Colorado, and I had front row seats. I didn’t have a formal credential of any kind, but discovered that you could just sort of go wherever you wanted if you acted like you belonged there. It was cold and raining on and off, and I took shelter for a while in the American tent as rider after rider dropped out, joined us in the tent, collapsed into a chair, and bitched about what a grind that was. The only one who stayed in the race was Greg LeMond, who missed the final breakaway. I watched the finish from the roof of an RV parked at the finish line. It was glorious: Argentin outsprinting Mottet.

To get into the British spirit here, and because I’m lazy, I’m having PG Tips tea instead of coffee. Alas, it’s not enough to wake me up so I have to go fetch more. Don’t worry, there’s at least 90 minutes left and the peloton is still all together so you won’t miss anything.

Okay, I’m back. The announcer says there are “less than 100 riders left in the race.” I think he meant “fewer” but then these guys aren’t exactly liberally educated.

It’s a bit tricky telling who is who, frankly. I don’t get to see anybody up close without the motorbikes, and nobody is in his recognizable trade team jersey. The jackets obscure their numbers which doesn’t help. Meanwhile, anybody who gets a bike change doesn’t show up on the readouts that the announcers use, which challenges them. I’m also spoiled because in this past Vuelta everyone was so tired by the third week, the peloton tended to shrink down to a very manageable size.

They keep promising the motorbike footage but nothing yet.

I just spotted an American rider! He’s tucked in the back, wearing a natty all-black jacket. That would be extra warm if there were any sign of the sun today. I have to say, I doubt this race will do anything for tourism in the UK (though that actually is a great vacation spot).

Oh, cool, we’ve finally got motorbike footage! Of course, it comes with a new caveat:

I wouldn’t want to fly a helicopter in these conditions so I guess I can’t complain.

Sam Bennett, the Irish spinter, drops out. Good, I don’t want this coming down to a sprint. That’s boring.

I’ve just learned that Valverde has abandoned. Excellent! Nobody is able to get footage of him climbing into his team car. He’s probably ashamed to abandon so early, being the defending champ. Well, in fairness, I’m sure he’s totally fried from taking second in the Vuelta. (Am I tempted to give him some credit for that achievement? Please.)

With five laps (about 70 km) to go, it’s still all together, with France and The Netherlands on the front setting tempo. The Dutch are trying to set up wunderkind Mathieu van der Poel for the win.

 Wow, an American attacks! It’s Lawson Craddock.

Daaamn, he’s getting a pretty good gap very quickly!

Some random dude has joined him. It’s Stefan Kung, a Swiss rider. He’s a pretty big guy, which bodes well. Big guys do better in the rain, just like they can hold their booze better. This isn’t just established fact, it’s my personal opinion as well, so you better take it seriously.

After taking like three minutes to eat a gel, Kung finally takes a turn at the front.

I strongly dislike Craddock’s handlebars. They’re like the “Randonneur” touring bike bars from the ‘80s. I guess I’m still rooting for him, though. It’s not like he chose those bars. In fact, his willingness to use what he’s provided, even when it’s so awful, is the height of professionalism.

In the peloton, Mike Teunissen of The Netherlands drills it at the front to shrink down the peloton. We’ll see what that does to the 31-second gap up to the lead duo.

Dang, just watching this is making me cold. I tried to warm my hands on my tea mug but it’s one of those double-walled insulated ones. I’m up in Oregon at my mom’s house, and the window is open because I’m too busy to empty the cat box right now, so it’s mighty frigid here. This is such a hard race for me!

The leaders have a gap that’s fluctuating between 25 and 35 seconds. Obviously they can’t hold this for 57 km, but perhaps somebody interesting will bridge up to them. I don’t think it’s possible for an American and a Swiss to do an epic break like that on their own … you need a Belgian or Dutchman in the mix to do something that heroic. That’s just the way it is.

Patriotism aside, I’d like to see van der Poel win, because I love to say his name. Back when his father, Adri, was winning a lot, back in the late ‘80s, I enjoyed saying that name, figuring out how to inject it into every conversation. (With that kind of social skill, it’s kind of amazing I wasn’t more of a ladies’ man.) Anyway, the young van der Poel is also a mountain bike and cyclocross racer, which I think is just kind of cool.

As the peloton comes through the finish line for another lap we get a more accurate split to the break: it’s only 20 seconds.

Another random guy attacks the peloton. His bike looks really odd, somehow bringing to mind a giraffe. I’m still getting used to seeing disc brakes on pro peloton road bikes. I’ll bet they’re nice to have in the rain today.

The chair I’m sitting at is too low. This is making my shoulders sore. Man, Worlds is a bitch!

The break is just sitting out there. I’m starting to think maybe Craddock won’t win this after all. Speaking of American victories, though, Junior Worlds was won by an American this year: Quinn Simmons. He fricking soloed … I didn’t watch it, but I’ve heard it was amazing. So we’ll keep an eye on that guy!

OMG, some dude totally stacks!

D’oh, his helmet whacked the pavement and everything. Poor dude.

Some guy attacks the peloton, bridges all the way to the break, and suddenly Craddock is dropped!

Man, things change fast. The new leader is Mads Pedersen of Denmark. That was an amazing bridge. So it’s just Pedersen and Kung out front, with Craddock floating a bit behind. Craddock is joined by some Dutchman … who now drops him.

Italy’s Gianni Moscon attacks the field and blows by Craddock, who’s on his way back to seek the breast of drafting and be suckled by the peloton.

The Dutchman who bridged up to Craddock was Teunissen, and he’s now on his own between the breakaway and Moscon, chasing like a madman.

And Teunissen has got them! This is great news for Holland because now van der Poel can just sit on, back in the peloton, and wait to counterattack if the break gets caught.

And now Moscon catches the break!

This is cool: Kung asks Teunissen for a gel and Teunissen gives it to him. They’re great pals now … if they make it to the last kilometer together, of course, that will change quickly.

One of my nephews just came over to see what I’m doing. He thinks that basketball is a far better sport than cycling. (Of course he does … he reached 6’4” at age thirteen.) I explain, “These are real men. They’re out there for over 160 miles in the frigid rain, rather than always playing indoors in a climate-controlled environment.” Peter replies, “Yeah, but they’re wearing yoga pants!” I explain that these uniforms predate yoga. But he’s wandering off. He’ll never learn.

The screen says the break still has 25 seconds but it doesn’t look that way to me. I could see everybody together in one shot just now.

Nils Politt of Germany makes a savage attack. What’s left of the peloton reacts swiftly.

With surprising quickness, Nils and three others, looks like van der Poel is one of them, significantly shrink the gap to the breakaway. Note the absurd Simpson-Meets-Flanders flag in the foreground.

Teunissen is dropped! I did not see that coming. Perhaps he’s dropping back for van der Poel. Could these guys be that organized?

And Nils is suddenly dropped! It’s because van der Poel is going so damn fast! Matteo Trentin of Italy is the guy on his wheel. Not sure who that third guy is.

And now van der Poel and Trentin catch the breakaway!

But the peloton is not far behind and there’s a ton of attacking back there.

So this lead group of five has two Italians. I think Moscon’s jacket might have thrown people off from realizing this. The Belgians have got to be pissed … they don’t even have a guy in the break!

There’s a chase group of three only 7 seconds behind, with the field another 10 seconds back. I hope this break stays off because I’ve taken some trouble reporting on it.

Kung misses a feed. D’oh! But somehow he scores another gel. Very resourceful, that guy. Note that this is the third gel he’s eaten since we started watching. Wise man.

The chasers are Izagirre Insausti (Spain), Carlos Betancur (Colombia), and Tom Skujins (Latvia). They’re looking really tired. Betancur is now dropped.

Up here in Oregon, winter has already arrived. I guess it’s fitting I should be freezing my arse off as I watch this. (In case you haven’t realized it yet, today is really all about me.)

The gap to the peloton is up to 35 seconds with 24 km (15 miles) to go. Betancur latches back on to the other two, but these guys are falling apart, they’re going to get caught. It’s a shame for them … they were so close to catching the break.

The gap is going out further, now up to 48 seconds so it’s not looking good for anybody in the peloton. As for the break, is van der Poel a big enough badass to beat the Italian duo of Moscon and Trentin, if they take turns attacking him?

Just to recap, the break is Kung (Switzerland), van der Poel (Holland) Pedersen (Denmark), and Moscon and Trentin (Italy).

Moscon cracks!

This lowers the breakaway’s chances of staying off, but obviously benefits Kung, van de Poel, and Pedersen if they can hang tough and hold it to the line.

But Moscon digs deep and makes it back on!

You know he suffered terribly to chase them down. What a badass!

Tim Wellens (Belgium) gets sawed off the back of the peloton. The peloton is rapidly dissolving as some furious Belgian bashes away on the front (perhaps unaware of the specific damage his effort has just caused).

Amazingly, Moscon has revived and is now doing solid work on the front of the break!

The leaders are now on the final lap, with only 13 km (8 miles) to go and a 47-second lead. In normal conditions, and in a shorter race, I’d expect the peloton to still have a solid chance, but I’ll bet everybody is just tired, cold, and demoralized. Look how sad Sagan looks. I think his sunglasses are falling off. Maybe that’s why he’s always rocking the ski goggles on the podium. Well, he won’t be doing that today.

Oh my god! Suddenly ven der Poel completely cracks!

He detonated so abruptly, I couldn’t even get a snapshot of the gap opening up. I think he probably bonked. He should’ve hustled up a couple of gels like Kung did!

And just like that, ven der Poel is caught by the peloton.

And now he’s off the back completely. What a shame, after his amazing move to catch the break.

Pedersen, notwithstanding the huge advantage Italy has in this breakaway, does a solid pull.

Trentin has finally ditched his jacket. Moscon is doing a lot of work on the front, making sure Trentin can save something for the finish (being the faster sprinter).

Now Kung pulls through. These guys are really working well together and that’s why the winner of this race will almost surely come from this group.

And Kung is just crushing it on the front! Moscon is dropped again, and Trentin is dying!

Kung is amazing. He was the original guy in this break, you’ll recall. And that was ages ago, with like 65km to go.

Sagan makes his move. Uh, dude? You are aware how overdue this is, right?

Kung is still being a total hero at the front and you can tell he’s suffering.

Now they’re inside of the final kilometer and suddenly they’re crawling, each waiting for someone else to pull through. Kung, on the back, looks absolutely miserable. I think he’s had the stuffing knocked out of him.

And Trentin launches his sprint!

But Pedersen is super fast and, surprisingly (to me, anyway, as I’ve never even heard of him) comes around! He’s heading for the line and looks like he’s got it!

What an amazing victory! I hadn’t really thought much about Petersen’s chances in this breakaway … he was just some guy. So what can we quickly learn about Pedersen? Well, he’s only 23 years old. He rides for an American team. He was second at Flanders last year. And now he’s being interviewed.

“What does it mean, to be wearing the World Champion jersey?” asks the interviewer. Pedersen replies, “Well, it’ll be harder to keep it clean. White is tricky that way, and remember, cycling costumes have to be washed in cold. So 2020 will be a tough season. I think I’ll need to lay in a good supply of Tide Plus Colorguard, and some Spray ‘n Wash.” The announcer says, “This must be a very special moment for you. A good soak should help with those whites. You might consider checking in with Mr. Laundry for some more helpful tips.” Pederson responds, “Thanks. Thanks for that.” (Note: I might not have this exchange exactly right. It’s possible laundry didn’t actually come up.)

Here’s a nice shot, thanks to the super-slo-mo replay, of Pedersen winning the race. I love how utterly wretched Kung looks in the background.

And here’s van der Poel crossing the line, looking pretty bollixed himself.

A domestique, noting earlier that I was slapping my hands together to beat blood back into them so I could type, has now brought me a down vest. I appreciate the gesture but where was he half an hour ago? The race is over!

Now the medalists are mounting the podium. Trentin really doesn’t look very happy.

Not surprisingly, Pedersen looks well chuffed.

And here’s your final podium. Trentin still can’t manage a smile. I hope he doesn’t kick any dogs later today. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll reflect on how a silver medal is actually pretty cool. Kung looks pretty pleased and he should be … he’s only 25 and obviously a complete badass with lots to look forward to. Also, being taller than the others, he will probably ultimately make more money. As for Pedersen, you know who he looks like? Buzz Lightyear. Am I right?

So, in closing, I invite you to ponder these facts: 1) an American initiated what became the winning break (even if he didn’t hang around to contest the finale), and 2) Valverde sucked even more than I hoped he would. What a great race!

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The Food of Scotland - Part II

Introduction

If you’ve been paying attention, you saw my last blog post, The Food of Scotland Part I. Perhaps you view this post, Part II, as being derivative, and you’ve come to resent such serialized features. Well, that’s your fault for participating in a society that has learned to nurse every bit of value it can out of every concept. It’s why we have movies like “Harry Potter – The Leaking Gallows Part II Part VI.” (I could easily look up the actual title, but that approximation got a big rise out of my daughter Alexa, so I’m inclined to reuse it. See how this cheap retread thing works?)

So here are the categories of Scottish food I didn’t get to in my last post. Because I started with the most intriguing stuff, this post is really the dregs, the offal, the deli hash—dare I say the haggis—of the topic. You might as well read it, though. Heck, you’ve made it this far.

World Cuisine

When I’m in America, I don’t subsist on American food, any more than I focus on California Cuisine when I’m in California. Likewise, we were eager to try out Scotland’s versions of other countries’ foods. On our first night in Glasgow, we decided to try Japanese and went to a place called Wudon. Their version of the California roll has little pieces of Saltines and crumbled In-N-Out Burger in it. No it doesn’t. Look:

It was great, like all great sushi. I know that’s tautological but I’m going to stick by it. I especially liked the artfully carved wasabi. It was almost too pretty to eat.

(Incidentally, the only bad sushi I’ve ever had at a restaurant was at this all-you-can-eat place where it was made well beforehand and tasted like a refrigerator. My brother and I learned that all you had to do was power through all they had, and then they were forced to start making it fresh, and then it got good.)

There’s a UK-wide chain called Pizza Express. It came recommended and we tried it. I had pizza there.

As you can see, it’s kind of weird ‘za. Not much cheese, but it had some bacon. It sported the highbrow feature of fresh arugula (or “rocket” as the British call it, as if they ever put a man on the moon), tempered by a comfortably sweet and lowbrow ranch dressing. I liked it, though it must be said I like all pizza, even bad pizza. Even frozen pizza. Some time we’re going to have Trashy Food night at home, with Totino’s frozen pizza (the greasy stuff with the fake cheese), some Shasta soda, and maybe even some Fritos.

I’m not sure if pizza counts as Italian, but here’s some French onion soup we had at an Italian place:

It was really very good, and their special touch was not encasing it in melted Swiss cheese. What, French onion soup without Swiss cheese? I guess that’s the Italian way. Following that we had this lasagne:

You might think that’s obviously Italian, but really it was more like American: Franco-American to be precise. Yes, I’m saying the sauce tasted like Chef Boyardee. (Has it ever puzzled you that an American company putting out putatively Italian prepared foods would call itself Franco-American?) Anyway, the sauce wasn’t the only American part: the portion size—enough for a starving cyclist—made me feel like I was back in the U.S. The pasta was really mushy. But the whole thing was smothered in cheese so I can’t really fault it.

Speaking of American:

Full disclosure: we didn’t have this cake in Scotland, but in London where we stayed with friends over July 4th. The man of the house was English-born but had worked in the U.S. for many years. He married an American and took her back to London with him. So, an expatriate and a re-patriate, you could say. They made sure our Independence Day was a satisfying one. I gave the husband a stern lecture about taxation without representation, to which he replied, “Tell me about it. I paid your government plenty in taxes without getting to vote.” Now, you might think I’d be stumped by this retort, but I quickly and boldly fired back, “These colors don’t run!” Amazingly, he hadn’t heard this before and simply looked confused. His wife then sang, “Proud to be an Amer-i-CUUUUN!” Score one for the bluecoats! And how was the cake? Delicious, of course.

We had some really good Indian food in Glasgow, but I somehow neglected to get any photos. Without a thousand words to spare I’ll just have to let the matter drop.

Things we didn’t eat

As with our last trip to the UK, we didn’t eat any Mexican food. There was one place in Glasgow that was faintly praised in our guidebook (something like “If you have to have Mexican in Glasgow, this is your best bet”). It looked pricey, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Mexican food, it’s that cheaper usually means better, and fancy is often lame. So we skipped it, having topped up our blood Mexican levels at the surprisingly decent (and unsurprisingly expensive) taqueria in the San Francisco airport.

We didn’t eat any bubble and squeak (cabbage and potatoes fried together, named after the sound made as it’s cooked) because it wasn’t featured on any menus, I’ve never had it recommended to me, and we weren’t about to try cooking it ourselves. We also didn’t eat hasty pudding unless the porridge we made from a mix qualifies. (It was quick….)

We also didn’t eat any Subway sandwiches, though we saw plenty of Subways in Scotland. I read recently that Subway is now the largest fast food chain in the world. I remember the first one I ever saw, on Broadway near Arapahoe in Boulder. At first, being a dumb kid, I thought it was an actual subway station and couldn’t figure out why there weren’t any others. When I learned it was a restaurant, I mistook it for a creditable one-off like the nearby Mustard’s Last Stand. By the time I learned Subway was a giant chain, I’d also learned that even Mustard’s was a small chain. My idealistic naiveté has continued to be pummeled ever since, with the latest and harshest insult being the closing of my favorite Berkeley joint.

The next thing we didn’t try was the amazing variety of crisps available.

In case that went too fast for you, there were pickled onion, cheese & onion, smoky bacon, prawn cocktail, tomato ketchup, roast chicken, and Space Raiders pickled onion. Doing a little research, I found that this Walkers outfit also offers crisps flavored like BBQ rib, Worcester sauce, and Chicken & Stuffin (whatever that is), and that in the past they’ve had Baked Bean, Marmite, Spicy Mango, Australian BBQ Kangaroo, Welsh Rarebit, and even Scottish Haggis. As a matter of fact, Walkers even test-marketed a Cajun-squirrel-flavored crisp.

As a patriot, I find all this a little hard to take. Surely Americans lead the world in consumption of crisps (that is, potato chips); how could we not also be the most innovative in developing new flavors? I took some solace in learning that Walkers is now owned by Frito-Lay. But still.

Speaking of strange flavors we didn’t try, when we went out for Indian we didn’t try the haggis pakora appetizer. I actually wanted to, but my wife Erin pointed out that we hadn’t yet tried regular haggis at that point (though we did get to it later), and also hadn’t yet tried the standard pakora. (There were other components to her argument as well; I believe the phrase “sick and wrong” came into play.)

One other thing we didn’t eat was blood pudding. To be precise: Erin and the kids didn’t eat blood pudding, and I didn’t have seconds of it (i.e., Erin’s uneaten portion). It came with our Full Scottish Breakfast and you can see it in my previous post. As I said there, the blood pudding was a chewy, mulchy little disk of congealed, salty pig’s blood, perhaps not as little as I’d have liked it to be, and my own portion was a bit of a struggle to get down. I hate to waste food, but then that’s arguably not food. (It’s possible that good blood pudding would be a totally different deal, but I’ll believe that when I see it.)

Kids’ Menus

We were pleased, as we’d been during our London trip a couple of years ago, to see kids’ menus done with some flair. Often, when in restaurants at home, we end up ordering our kids’ food from the regular menu because our kids don’t want chicken nuggets and I’m not about to buy them something I can make well at home, like hot dogs or grilled cheese. A good rule of thumb for kids’ offerings: when the food arrives, I should feel tempted to use my superior size and strength to seize my kid’s meal and eat it myself. Thus it was with this spaghetti Bolognese:

The kids’ choices at American restaurants often come with fries, a basic ice cream dessert, and juice or soda (which I think should be a controlled substance). In the UK there are things like side vegetables and actual appetizers (served as a separate course). Check this out:

Red bell peppers? I could see those inciting a tantrum in many an American kid. The little baked doodads had some name but I can’t remember it. Pizza holes? That’s not it. Anyway, they’re just balls of baked dough but they were a hit, and they gave the kids something to do, in the absence of crayons, while the rest of the food was being made.

Now check out this dessert:

That sundae was about the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. (I taste all my kids’ desserts in accordance with the family Parental Tariff policy.) The chunks of caramel were Wonka-esque miracles of sugar reduction. About the only way to make this dessert more potent would be to supply a flame and an extra spoon. Meanwhile, check out the little frothy teacup. That was merely steamed milk with some cocoa powder—fun to sip, but not very substantial. I suspect it’s designed as a gateway beverage to expensive cappuccinos for when these kids graduate to the standard menu.

Weirdness

Dining out in Scotland was occasionally weird, due either to the food or the service. Sometimes it was good-weird, as with the brilliant haggis (and haggis stromboli) I described in my last post. So it was too with this offering (from the kids’ menu) which was called a battered sausage:

In advising Alexa, the waitress had described the battered sausage as “quite lovely,” and after tasting it I have to say, it really was delicious. It’s just one of the oddest foods I’ve ever seen.

Another oddity was the tea Erin had at the Japanese place. The tea itself was pretty standard green tea; what made it weird was the giant tea bag, easily the largest I’ve ever seen. In this photo it’s hard to appreciate the sheer size of the thing unless you know that the glass behind it is a full-size mug. This tea bag was the size of a chile relleno. Amazing.

In the overall experience category, the greatest weirdness was this Thai place we went to for lunch. It was really upscale, but the lunch special was reasonable—at least, no more unreasonable than any of the other places we went. (Frankly, the pound was murdering our weak dollar.) Though we went right at lunchtime, we were the only people in the place. It was opulently decorated, with large elephant statues made of marble; cloth tablecloths; cloth napkins; a coat check; and like five people waiting on us. It was absolutely dead quiet in there. Shifting your napkin on your lap was an audible event (bringing to mind those martial arts movies where every time a fighter swings his arm there’s this tremendous ripping noise). The staff never seemed to leave the dining room: when not serving, they would stand sentinel. We were afraid to talk.

Before the food came out, they brought these elaborate heated platforms to put the serving plates on:

When the entrees arrived, the servers set them down extremely quietly, as if there was a baby sleeping nearby. We were all pretty nervous by this point. They plated the rice from a serving bowl but then whisked it away instead of leaving it on the table, as though the sight of leftover rice was somehow disgraceful. I think the serving spoons were sterling silver. Here is the food. The main point of this photo is how worried Lindsay looks in the background (even though she’s gazing upon a plate of Pad Thai, everybody’s favorite).

The food itself was quite good. Erin didn’t trust the chicken (in the foreground of the photo) because it seemed too tender. I think she was just spooked in general. (I do wonder, though, if she wasn’t still reacting to a tequila ad from the ‘90s that showed a table of picked-over dishes at a Chinese restaurant with the broken pieces of a fortune cookie and a fortune slip reading, “That wasn’t chicken.” A five-foot-tall print of this ad was affixed to the bus shelter right outside an already doomed Chinese restaurant in our old San Francisco neighborhood.)

As the staff worked hard to make our Thai lunch enjoyable, the pressure really started to get to us. Perhaps this is how people feel who are unknowingly taking part in psychological experiments. Could there be one-way glass somewhere? Hidden cameras? It dawned on me that the place didn’t have any windows.

One thing we missed about American restaurants is how the check is always brought early, usually with the comment, “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready.” I’ve heard that visiting Europeans think this is terribly rude, as though they’re being rushed out of the restaurant. I think they’re mistaken, and that American waiters are entirely sincere—they’re simply giving us the freedom to be on our way as soon as we’re damn good and ready. Which we really were at this Thai place. Erin isn’t shy about asking for the check, but to our surprise the waitress—who had scarcely said a word up to this point—politely refused: “I can’t bring it yet because you’re not done eating.” She sounded vaguely pained, as there were a subtext: “They’ll fire me if I do!” If there were a Thai version of the French “C’est impossible” I’m sure she’d have used it.

Conclusion

Gosh, I hate to finish on a somber note. I’m sure there are people—brazen crime bosses, perhaps—who could have really enjoyed that Thai place. Overall, we found Scotland a great place to eat, from the haggis to the ale, the superior British bacon to the gorgeous mussels and local cheeses, the international fare, sculpted wasabi, and the improbably delicious battered sausage. I recommend you get over there and try it sometime. Bring the kids.

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