What I found when I revisited the Barras after decades away

The Herald Scotland

4 days ago

And there were swaggers of young men, hair slick and wavy with Brylcreem, brimming with attitude in their white sports coats, their chiselled jaws forged not in gyms but in coalmines, steelworks and shipyards. And arm-in-arm with last night's lumber.
This is where we would come on Sunday afternoons in the advent weeks running up to Christmas. Where else could a single modest wage help Santa fulfil his annual responsibilities to five young children? It didn't matter that the toys' shelf-life was shorter than the wrapping paper in which they came, but that they out-lasted the school holidays.
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It was amidst this throng between wooden barrows laden with garments and jewellery and 'fancy goods' where I first got lost. I still recall that initial terror that comes with being marooned among strangers beyond the protective gaze of mum and dad. And then being rescued by an elderly woman with a black shawl and brown, leathery features who spoke kindly to me in a funny accent full of zs and ks and sat me down beside her stall; experience telling her that my parents would soon retrace their steps and find me here.
And now, for the first time in many decades I'm back here at the invitation of Sarah Campbell, The Herald's Food and Drink specialist. Ms Campbell is telling me about the recent 'street food' and 'artisan' vibe that has begun to curl around this old place. She's a full generation younger than me, but knows these alleyways well and all their culinary vestibules. And the stallholders all seem to know her. I'm impressed.
Anything billed as 'artisan' often induces a nameless terror in me: of pony-tailed and red corduroyed hipsters frenchifying comestibles you can pick up in Lidl and charging an extra fiver for it; of soy lattes and other formless elixirs served by the barista elites. Perhaps, she's sensed my initial reticence and so perhaps that's why she's chosen a wee outlet called Colombian Bites to commence our culinary peregrination through the Barras market.
Colombian Bites at the Barras (Image: Robert Perry)
It's about the size of a garden shed and is squeezed in between wider and louder emporiums on Moncur Street, but the queue that has begun to form there hints at the treats to come. It's owned by Ana Orsino and Andres Moya whose Facebook page tells me that that this is their love letter to Colombia and the Latin spirit which lives in both of us.
They specialise in Arepas and Empanadas, which I may have tasted once or twice in Tex Mex … or maybe that's me wretchedly indulging in an ethno-gastro form of profiling. Empanadas, I've heard of, but if I have previously eaten one it wasn't like this. I'd have remembered this. Ms Campbell has recommended a chicken empanada. You're tempted to describe its casing as a 'wrap' as though it's one of those tuna preparations you get in a Tesco meal-deal and in which you could wrap spanners.
This one though, is as fine as tissue paper so that it doesn't detract from the layers of meat. You want to describe it as 'tightly-packed', but it's too delicate for that. One of them is just about enough; two at a single sitting would be disrespectful.
And then we delve into the Barras' old, thin, busy boulevards and the stalls and the barrows of my youth still laden with Aladdin's cast-offs.
I can't resist telling Ms Campbell about this wider neighbourhood and all of its connectedness to my family. She listens politely, but when I get like this I'm like a two-bob tour guide and so I give her leave to shut me up at any moment.
I was baptised just up the road from here at St Anne's in Dennistoun, where my mum's side of the family all lived when they'd got off then boat from Ireland.
I recount a night in the Barrowland ballroom at a Pogues concert where my brothers and cousins and their friends defended the honour of a young female in their company with extreme prejudice when a drunken suitor and his psycho pals were coming the wide men.
The Barras (Image: Newsquest)
And I tell her about my daughter, a sustainable gashio designer who had a studio in the middle of the Barras and how proud I was that she had restored a family link to this neighbourhood stretching back five generations.
Ms Campbell isn't having any of the gentrification stuff. 'You can't really gentrify a place like this,' she says. 'The street food is real and it's of a high quality made by people who know what they're doing. But the Barras will always be the Barras.'
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She's right, of course. The sights and sounds rising up from these wynds come from a dozen different cultures, but this is nothing new. This place once provided sanctuary and safe spaces for my people and their alien culture and now it's doing so again. The food is an extension of these groups, their gifts to us, in which they've placed something of themselves and their lands.
Later, we head for Ho Lee Fook, the Hong Kong street food shack directly opposite the Barrowland Ballroom on the corner of MacFarlane Street and the Gallowgate. The literal translation of Ho Lee Fook is 'Good, wealth and luck.' It's also my inward response when I bite into one of their pork burgers. I want to ask if they'd consider opening sister outlets called 'Mon Tae' and 'Take a Runnin', but these might not have a direct Chinese translation.
Ms Campbell believes this place offers just about the best street food in the city. 'You'd be amazed how far people will travel to visit this place,' she says. I've not come from very far away, but Ho Lee Fook is the main reason why I make a return solo visit the following week.
Ho Lee Fook (Image: Robert Perry)
I also want to take a more leisurely wander through the old Barras. These streets were absolutely rammed with people when I'd walked round with Ms Campbell and even more so on my return visit.
I turn right at Kent Street just beside Mexica Express and across from the Saracen Head tavern. Many years ago, en route to a Celtic game, I'd watched a barman pour White Lightning cocktails directly into the mouths of a row of punters, this being their first drink of the day and thus the one that would stiffen their shaky hands.
Just inside the first lane there's a wee old boy with a fez and a beard, looking like he's just taken the long route back from a Grateful Dead concert in 1969. There's a stall selling Polish dumplings. I have to forgo these delights though as I need to leave some room for those Ho Lee Fookin bang bang prawns and crispy katsu chicken.
The local vernacular is at full ramming speed today. 'You alright, ma man,' I'm asked by the Gallowgate Hippie. 'Aye, it's all good,' I say, and we chat about how great the atmosphere is. 'Nice talkin' to you, bud,' he says.
'Lookin' good, princess,' he says to a handsome woman looking for baby clothes across the way. She giggles and then he winks at me.
A young couple walk by, speaking French. 'Are youze from Germany,' another old chap asks them. 'Do you know ma mate Klaus, he used to live up the Garngad. Some team that Bayern Munich, by the way.
In every nook, there are tables selling collectable vinyls and picture discs. Bob Marley is singing 'Exodus, movement of Ja People.'
The elderly woman behind the table next to me is wearing what appears to be her wedding dress from the last century and I feel a tenderness for her that I can't quite explain.
In small wooden kiosks and pavilions there are old coins, old hats, old mirrors, old cards. You wouldn't use this place as a backdrop to a movie location; you'd use the movie as a backdrop to the Barras.
The Barras (Image: Newsquest)
I walk down to Colombian Bites and this time the queue is nudging the opposite side of the street. Today is Colombian Independence Day and along with his tostadas and his empanadas and his arepas, Andres is providing a free Salsa dance lesson. Some couples are taking him up on his kind offer, sashaying and swaying in the Glasgow sunshine.
'One, two three ... five, six, seven, Clap your hands, side to side.' Ms Campbell should be glad she's not here, because I'd have been up there like a shot.
Round the corner and there's your luxury dog's chocolates. A human couple appears to be tasting the goods somewhat, which is top, top marketing.
And there's your Monster Munchies, billed as 'The Barras Hutch for good food'. Under a sign that reads 'F*** the Diet' there's lively bill of fayre: Irn Bru chilli; loaded salt and chilli fries, Monster Munchie Box
And look, here's a pavilion selling holy pictures and statues and crucifixes. I purchase a statue of Padre Pio, the old saint who had the gift of being in two places at the one time. It sparks another childhood memory: of my old school football coach, Charlie Higgins and his lifelong devotion to Padre Pio.
When I'd told him that the Italian holy man would have been decent at football with a gift like that, Mr Higgins had become cross. 'You could be in six places at the one time, McKenna and you'd still never be anywhere near the flamin' ball."
It's owned by Rebecca and Sandra. I tell them it's great to see the Barras jumping again. 'This place is vital to the local community,' says Sandra. 'It helps young entrepreneurs to get a wee shot at running their own businesses without having to pay the expensive High Street rents.
'Rebecca's dad died two years ago and both she and I have found solace here. It's been an escape. You can't not be happy among these people.'