There is so much lore about the Scottish food known as Haggis! The jokes abound, some thinking that it was invented as a food to eat on a DARE!
Maître d’hôtel: ‘Are you here for a special occasion?’
Campbell: ‘Aye, we won the third prize in the annual Robert Burns Contest, a haggis dinner for two.’
Maître d’hôtel: ‘What were the other prizes?’
Campbell: The second prize was a single haggis dinner, and, if you won the first prize, you didnae have to eat the haggis.’
Haggis needn’t be feared. When it is well made, it is a robust, filling and flavourful food. It has been said that we “faint of heart” North Americans would enjoy this more if we didn’t know its ingredients. I say, pish tosh to that!! It is a meal to be celebrated for its ingenuity in using sustainable and available meat. Made with the offel (organ meats) of lamb/sheep, toasted steel cut oats, and “secret Scottish spices” it is probably the most affordable meal you’ll ever make.
If you decide that making Haggis isn’t your thing, then make sure to order ahead, as no matter how much we make, we usually always sell out! Paul Bradshaw, the head butcher at our Eglinton location, spent time learning Haggis making from the best of the best in Scotland and has perfected his recipe over the years. If you were ever going to try Haggis, his would be the one to try!
The consuming of Haggis is a tradition rife with rituals, including a bagpiper and a reading of “Address To A Haggis” by Robbie Burns. So don your kilt, polish the sporran, get out your finest ghillie brogues, and make sure to have your sgian dubh ready to cut open the Haggis.
Address To A Haggis
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.
Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a haggis!