ALLOWAY – For more than three years I’ve had a notion to attend a Burns Supper. That’s underselling it a bit: a campaign to attend a Burns Supper is a more accurate description of my desire to go to this Ploughman Poet celebration.
My friend CRJ is a Scotsman’s Scotman, and when I told him that 2011 was The Year of the Burns Supper for me, he was on the case. CRJ delivered the gold standard of Burns Suppers, an absolutely perfect night.
We attended a black-tie (Scottish = formal kilts) event in the nexus of Burns Country. One speaker referred to our exact location at the Brig O’ Doon House Hotel as “the epicenter of Burns”: The banquet room faced the banks of the River Doon and a bridge where Tam O’Shanter just may have made his escape; the hotel stood across the road from the Alloway Auld Kirk where Burns’ father rests in peace (and where the witches danced); the Burns Monument was a stone’s throw away, beyond that, the new Robert Burns Birthplace Museum and just further afield, the cottage with the small corner where Rabbie came into the world.
I ask you, how much more Burns could it get?
And so we put on our best dress for the Burns Supper. My two friends, CRJ and JMM, were so handsome and dapper in their kilts – for fear of embarrassing them, I will say no more than that. But they looked amazing.
We arrived at the Brig O’ Doon, an ivy-covered delight, to the sounds of a piper. Once inside, we grabbed some champagne and plunged into a sea of tartan. We enjoyed some appetizers, then the doors were opened to the banquet room itself. We entered onto a small platform, from where you could see the entire room below. There were two long banquet tables, with the “top table” (head table) at the far end, in front of windows that overlooked the Doon and the bridge.
I liked the long tables. Our party of 8 had a chance to visit “over the border” to adjacent attendees. To my left was an absolutely lovely lady named Margaret. She had come to the dinner with her husband, John, a former past president of the Robert Burns World Federation. Margaret volunteers at the new Burns museum and is a member of a Jean Armour group (I took this to be the ladies auxiliary). Their Burns credentials were unmatched.
Of course they knew about the Burns Cottage replica in Atlanta (open 30 minutes per year by secret appointment – and I now wish I had taken their contact info because if anybody could have gotten me into the cottage, they could have).*
Soon we welcomed the top table, who would be the speakers, performers and entertainment for the evening. These individuals were “piped in,” which means everybody stands and claps to the skreel of bagpipes. The master of ceremonies compere was a dry solicitor who had good material (albeit a bit flat in the delivery) and introduced each speaker.
The big highlight of the ceremony was the piping in of the haggis. Again we stood and clapped while one piper led in the haggis (carried by the chef). An entertainer performed “Address to a Haggis” and then hacked it, “Psycho”-style. The compere later deadpanned that it was the first time he had seen someone disembowel something that had already been disemboweled.
For a supper this large, the ceremonial haggis is not dished out but instead a separate haggis dish is served. While we waited for the food to come, we listened to traditional music played live, and visited with all of CJR’s school friends (which included one very sweet woman and four other handsome Scotsmen in kilts). They all had classic Scottish names: Ewan, Andrew, Gordon and Craig.
I loved looking across the room and seeing the tartans of many colors and the formality of the Bonnie Prince Charlie jackets.** I also enjoyed seeing the flair like kilt pins and cufflinks (my favorite: thistles). The women’s wear was more varied, from cocktail dresses (some with tartan wraps) to more casual dresses. I know you’re dying to know what I wore: the answer is, a Black Watch plaid skirt and black sweater.
So the traditional meal began after the Selkirk Grace, with cock-a-leekie soup followed by haggis, served artfully with neeps and tatties. The only slight disappointment of the evening was the small amount of haggis. I like it and could have stood more. The main course was beef loin, which was very good, and we had a delicious dessert.
The musical entertainment continued: a tenor sang some Burns songs (I about cried at “Ae Fond Kiss”) and a pipe band (Six! Count ‘em – six pipers and two drummers and a lambeg) played until I thought they would pass out.
Then the true Burns worship began. The program started with the “Immortal Memory” – basically a Burns lecture by an expert. Our speaker did a great job speaking about who lays claim to Burns and why. He debunked some familiar Burns myth and struck just the right tone. He rightly said we are in “the epicenter epicentre of Burns.”
The Toast to the Lassies (and the rebuttal) were delivered by a husband and wife team who were enjoyable. This portion is kind of like a roast, with jokes lampooning the opposite sex.*** At the end of the Toast to the Lassies, the men really do toast you, and I think the idea of a roomful of kilted men raising a glass to you, however generically, is an image to be savoured.
We also were treated to two performances of Burns’ poetry, “Holy Willie’s Prayer” and “Tam o’ Shanter,” complete with hobbyhorse substituting for Meg and a member of the audience getting Auld Nick’s horns placed on him. I am glad I read the poem a couple times before the event – by the time the performer reached the Auld Kirk, a lot of the accent had been lost on me. No matter – it was a fantastic rendition.
After all the participants had been thanked not twice but thrice, we joined hands**** and sang “Auld Lang Syne” – perhaps Burns’ best-known composition. Did you know there is a second verse? I didn’t either. I will need to learn it for next time – and remember to cross my arms for that verse, too.
The festivities ended past midnight, so there was nowhere to go to a nightcap except for CJR’s mum’s house. She joined us for a Drambuie and listened to us recount our perfect night.
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* John looked like a less jolly John Houseman, and didn’t seem to care for some of the more modern interpretations of Burns’ work. He and Margaret could recite along with them, chapter and verse. John mentioned to me that this particular gathering, being in the epicentre of Burns with many devotees, would be a very tough room. No doubt! He was very kind to me though, and he took the picture of the pipe band.
** I confess I had more than a few moments of contemplation about the True Scotsman. JMM later asked, “Is that why you dropped your earring?”
*** These jests were mild, but I can see how a more stag-oriented Burns Supper has the potential to be a raunchfest.
**** just like the Whos down in Whoville
Georgia Confidential 