When people ask me where I came from I never really know how to answer. I was dragged up between the Gorbals, Bridgeton and Hamilton with a wee bit of Easterhouse, Castlmilk and Blackhill thrown in. However, I spent my early 1-7 and later teenage years in the Gorbals and that’s where I say I come from; keeps it simple. If I decided to tell the truth I’d be as well writing this book about a Gorbal’s Girl.
Oh I did!
I loved the Old Gorbals; the camaraderie, friendships and memories developed there have lasted my lifetime. Don’t get me wrong, it could be tough and I still know how to hold my own in a fight, whether it be physical or verbal. People often make the mistake of underestimating me and it’s a mistake, HUGE. I learned very quickly to ‘read’ a room and would bolt at signs of trouble or surprise my opponent with a swift hit with a right hook. My dad was a boxer for a while and trained us well. “Surprise”, he said, “is your weapon of mass protection”.
Strike while they’re pondering!
Tonight I’m back in my old stomping ground to visit Bruschetta and who’d a thought there’d be a successful deli on Ballater Street, where I used to go searching for my mum in some ‘shebeen’ or The ‘Mungo’ Pub?
The Mary says
Bruschetta is basically fancy, fried bread but grilled to make it swanky and I think she’s right. We used to fry bread, in left over lard, when there was nothing else to eat. It would be done in the ‘dripping’ which had oozed out of the sausages we might have had for dinner the night, or ever the week before. As my teeth sunk into the soaking bread memories of the previous, great fry up came gushing back.
By all appearances it may look like a piece of garnished bread but
Bruschetta has a history which spans through the centuries and is a traditional Tuscan ‘dish’. I suppose it’s, sort of, like the ‘open sandwich’ we used to get in Pier 39 sitting on the Clyde side, feeling all European.
Now it’s so much more than a bit of bread, bruschetta could now replace a main course when it’s embellished beyond recognition. It’s no longer the original, salt-less dough dressed with salt and a drizzle of oil!
Let’s see if my previous brushes with the law in The Gorbals can be replaced with a more acceptable “brusca” by a pizzaiolo?
Bruschetta on Ballater Street is lovely and from the outside looks inviting and cosy. Angelo welcomed us and let me choose my seat. Did he already know I can’t sit with my back to the room or the door and the exit needs to be visible at all times? Old habits die hard for this lassie.
He gave us plenty of time to consider the menu and knew instinctively when we were ready to order. We ordered Foccaccia, Spaghetti Pomodoro and the meatballs.
The Focaccia was crisp and perfectly seasoned. Pasta was cooked al dente and the sauce, The Mary says, tasted like the one I make so we knew it was good because I learned from the best in Italy. The meatballs were something else. They were the most tender, juicy, full and delicious balls I have ever had the pleasure of wrapping my chops around and that’s saying something.
Although chopped meat is not really my thing, I have savoured the most mouth-watering balls of meat Italy has to offer!
As the sauce dripped down my chin and the creamy cheese stuck to my fork The Mary burst my bubble, spoiling my aftertaste by stating;
“You’re a pure Manky eater, look at the state of you? You look as if you need a bib.”
Apart from the company everything was perfect and this wee gem is sure to be a success. Luck will not be needed as Angelo and Colin seem to have everything just as it should be in the heart of a community which will welcome and cherish everything they have to offer.
The last street I lived in was Crown Street and if I had to choose jewels for a coronation it would be in the colours of the Italian flag, Emerald, Diamond and Ruby. Then I would award it as a trophy to Angelo and his staff for doing Italy, Glasgow and The Gorbals Proud!
Buona Fortuna!
Ci Vediamo.
Me and The Mary!
Click on the image bellow to read The Memoirs of a Gorbal's Girl
