The Pleasure Of... Comfort Food
Political catastrophes, Christmas jumpers, and sticky toffee pudding.
I was in Edinburgh for most of the week, a little beaten for six by travel woes and the anxiety that comes before any public appearance. I’ve learned that there’s no way to properly relax while the event is looming, even though I don’t get nervous speaking in public—I actually love getting up in front of a crowd. It’s the preparation that twists me up. The National Library of Scotland, where I gave the talk, is a grand and friendly place, eager to slap literary quotes on anything standing still. And why not? I love this picture Ali took of me on the stairs inside. Afterwards, I was able to catch up with old friends in an older pub, marvel at the Harry Potter-themed festive tourist trap Edinburgh has become, and still enjoy how bracing and striking and spookily gorgeous it is, in these short days with their bursts of sunshine through the gloom.
My talk was a bit of a Frankensteined affair, pieces of other things I’ve been writing and thinking about over the past few months, all swirling around this central point of the absence of women from the literary canon, and how we need to see that absence as political, not natural. This line of argument was galvanized by reading my imaginary best friend Ronan Farrow’s extremely gripping (and often very funny) Catch & Kill on the flight over, about his battle to report out the open secret of Harvey Weinstein’s abuse of women. The story becomes about trying to navigate between individual experiences—and weaknesses, and crimes—and systemic injustices and inequities. In some ways this seems to me to be the biggest problem of our moment: our intense attachment to individualism, to fame and personality, versus our unwillingness to see ourselves as part of a system—still less victims of a system, cogs in a machine. We want to believe we have so much more power, more freedom of choice, than we do.
Friday wasn’t a joyful day in Britain, and certainly not in Scotland.** The jarring mismatch between small personal victories and large political horrors is a little too much sometimes. On those days, you need friends and you need food. Ali took me to the venerable Edinburgh deli Valvona & Crolla that’s now an outpost in the still-more-venerable Jenner’s department store, and we bought shortbread and tablet and honey and nougat in decorative tins, then took refuge among the well-upholstered lunching ladies at one of the tendrils of The Ivy that have recently unfurled from Covent Garden. A chain it may be now, but it’s a chain with a wide marble bar and comfortable bar stools, good drinks and good light, with lots of cut glass and polish to reflect it back.* By mid-afternoon our hotel had laid on mulled wine and mince pies, and the staff were resplendent in Christmas jumpers, and I was informed that this was now a Thing in mid-December. SantaCon with less commitment, though arguably just as many casualties. In search of a restaurant that wasn’t booked out for office parties, Ali and I went to the delightful Howie’s that evening, where I ate an excellent steak followed by a sticky toffee pudding, and pulled my first cracker of the season.
* Plenty of people have opinions about restaurant volume, but restaurant lighting is of underrated importance. I am willing to be a highly-paid wattage-and-candle-placement consultant, as an offshoot of my already-thriving fantasy business, For The Love Of God Proofread Your Menu.
** Incidentally I have decided that Sunday is a better day for this letter than Friday moving forward. It’s a slower, more reflective day, both for writing and reading. I hope you’ll stick with me, and please do pass it on if you’re so inclined.