Rankin, Rebus and Irn-Bru

I'm feeling a little bit haunted by Ian Rankin and particularly by Inspector John Rebus, the character for which Rankin is most famous.

Rankin appeared at the Cheltenham Literary Festival (the one I missed - see earlier post) and was quoted in the papers talking about how comics are the most difficult form of literature to write (apparently he wrote one after 'retiring' Rebus). But when we reached Edinburgh, Rebus was everywhere. Well, more accurately, the places Rebus goes in Rankin's 'tartan noir' crime novels were everywhere.

'Hey, we're in the Grassmarket!' I said on our very foggy Edinburgh walk.

'What's the Grassmarket?'

'No idea - but Rebus used to go there.' Of course, I couldn't remember whether he went there to have a whisky at the end of the working day or to investigate a crime when he shouldn't have been. There are a lot of Rebus books to carry in your head.

As we drove through Paris from Gare du Nord to our apartment, the word 'Rankin' kept catching my eye. It was on advertising posters on the Left Bank, seemingly everywhere. For Ian Rankin has just released his new Rebus novel, Standing in Another Man's Grave - which brings Rebus together with Rankin's new character, Malcolm Fox (of whom I'm growing rather fond).

Nothing, though, inspired thoughts of Rebus as much as discovering Irn-Bru - pronounced 'Iron Brew' as I learned at Loch Leven, where I also discovered Irn-Bru gelato. Pale, pale apricot and tasting like sherbet.

Irn-Bru is the drink Rebus always turns to when he's had too much whisky the night before. So in the spirit of culinary adventure, I decided to try some (note that I also ate black pudding and mussels (for the first time in about 25 years)).

Here it is - it's hard to believe that this violently orange soft drink has been Scotland's number one soft drink for decades.

According to the label, it's been 'Bru'd in Scotland to a secret recipe for over 100 years'. The ingredients include: carbonated water, sugar, citric acid, flavourings (including caffeine and Quinine), preservative (E211), colours (Sunset Yellow and Ponceau 4R), Ammonium Ferric Citrate.

Sounds delicious, huh? But please note that 'Sunset Yellow and Ponceau 4R: may have an adverse effect on activity and attention in children'!

This picture doesn't quite convey how outrageously, artificially orange the drink is. It looks to me like something you'd find in the mad scientist's laboratory, so much so that I had to work myself up to drinking it. It took a couple of days before I convinced myself to buy it - we were in Arbroath by that time.

And when I did finally drink it, Irn-Bru reminded me of something. Not oranges, or Fanta or any other soft drink you've ever tasted. What could it be? Jim had a taste. Yep, reminded him of something too. I had a bit more, and a bit more, and then I got it.

Irn-Bru tastes like BEROCCA! Did you know that Australians were among the first to claim Berocca as a hangover cure (the things you learn on the web)? Seems the Scots may have got there first with Irn-Bru - no wonder Rebus drinks it the morning after.

PS I tried to get a photo of the Rankin posters but by the time I thought to do it, this was the face decorating Paris - and the back of this week's Hello magazine. Recognise him?

Brad Pitt for Chanel No 5
 

Dinner at Jamie’s or How I Missed the Cheltenham Literary Festival

Sunday evening. Our attempts to find accommodation at Gloucester (after first humming the Harry Potter theme in the Cathedral cloisters) had failed. In some English towns, finding even the town centre is like working your way through a maze. So we drove onwards, ever onwards, looking for the next town.

A winding country road, hedgerows, failing light, and then the sign ‘Cheltenham 6 miles’. I knew the Literary Festival was closing that night. I’d deliberately avoided Cheltenham for that reason. Too crowded and what would Jim and Miles do while I queued to listen to Ian McEwan, Ian Rankin, Alexander McCall-Smith, Nigella Lawson, David Walliams … who wasn’t going to be at the festival? But we were tired, it was getting dark, so we took the turn in the road and found ourselves at the Queens Hotel.

Across the road, the festival tents glowed white in the twilight. The festival bookshop, run by Waterstones, was in full swing and a queue was starting to form for one of the final sessions. And I didn’t have a ticket!

Instead, we went looking for dinner. A long walk through a dark town centre - always a pedestrian mall. A man in his sleeping bag in the Debenhams doorway. A Pizza Hut with teenagers queuing. Miles and I both tired, hungry and a little dispirited. And then, around a corner … Jamie’s Italian. Suddenly, the evening took a turn for the better.

We were lead up a winding staircase to the court room of the old County Courthouse. We were ushered into the Press Box, seated in a row, looking across at other diners seated at the Judge’s table. A children’s menu for Miles - with pencils. Menus for Jim and I. Drinks order taken. 

Our Albanian waiter ran through the menu -  no lamb, no bream, no fritto misto, and no pork belly advertised on the chalkboard on the street. But they still had pasta and the other special of the day, pumpkin risotto.

Jim was thinking of leaving. Thinking very loudly of  leaving. We'd eaten a lot of Italian lately - how much pasta can a man take? I was in no mood to leave - too tired, too hungry, and determined to have a ‘Jamie’ experience. Miles was just happy to have spag bol (again). So we stayed. Jim ordered ‘Funky Chips’ - here’s what he got.

The waiter was embarrassed - embarrassed that so many things were off the menu. He sent the manager to have a chat with us. He wasn’t at all embarrassed and couldn’t rustle up a single serve of lamb, pork belly or fish. He was grumpy and probably a little fed up - it was, after all, the end of the festival. What did we expect?

We soldiered on. We laughed (slightly hysterically). The chips were ‘funky’(doused in garlic) - and definitely a ‘side’. The risotto, though, was delicious and Miles begged for a second helping of the spag bol.

And our Albanian waiter proved to be an angel - he was so embarrassed, he convinced the manager to charge us for our drinks only, turning a potentially awful evening into a highlight of the trip.

As for the Literary Festival, this is what I saw on Monday morning.

But I did buy a signed copy of Alexander McCall Smith’s new Isabel Dalhousie novel from Waterstone’s, a momento of the festival I missed.

The Charming Quirks of Others - Alexander McCall Smith

The Charming Quirks of Others is the seventh novel in the Isabel Dalhousie series, a series which is also known as the Sunday Philosophy Club series, although I don't think the Sunday Philosophy Club ever really existed. I should probably declare my hand early - I love this series. I haven't read any other books by McCall Smith, not even the first para of the acclaimed No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. And I don't think I want to, not at the moment anyway. But I do adore Isabel Dalhousie, even when she's driving me crazy.

The Sunday Philosophy Club came into my life accidentally. Three years ago, a friend sent me the first two books - The Sunday Philosophy Club and Friends, Lovers, Chocolates - when I was facing a long period of illness. They proved to be the perfect antidote - gentle, thoughtful, philosophical, humourous, engaging and slightly romantic. They are also set in Edinburgh, a city I've had a long love affair with. It began with a short acquaintance during my first overseas trip and continued through the pages of novels, mostly Ian Rankin's Rebus series.

Rebus' Edinburgh, of course, is pretty gritty. It's the Edinburgh of pubs and pool halls, council estates that brush against historical sites, the crime scene and the morgue. Isabel Dalhousie's Edinburgh is far more genteel. Hers is the Edinburgh of concert halls and art galleries and, in this novel, of old schools and Sir Walter Scott's home, Abbotsford. But as in the Rebus novels, the past is never very far from the present and by page 3, Isabel is once again reflecting on the Stuarts.

There's always a bit of a mystery in Isabel's life - philosophically, she can't resist requests for help - but the mystery is really (I suspect) just the excuse, the technical framework on which to hang the story. This time around, Isabel is asked to look into a poison-pen letter.

I don't read Isabel Dalhousie books for the mystery, though. I read to revisit the deli run by Isabel's niece, Cat, where the coffee is always fresh and the Italian newspapers are delivered daily. I read for the gentle, surprising relationship that has developed between Isabel and Cat's former boyfriend, the beautiful Jamie. I read too for the housekeeper, Grace, who believes in the afterlife and goes to 'meetings' to contact the dead. And for the war between Isabel and the deliciously named Lettuce and Dove. Mostly, though, I read for the charm of the writing, for the sheer joy of reading this:

He shook his head. 'You're doing it again. Inventing things. Whole stories now. Making them up.'

She got to her feet. 'But that's what the world is all about, Jamie. Stories. Stories explain everything, bring everything together.'

Stories explain everything.