Buck’s Bar — Glasgow, Scotland

After living in Glasgow for 10 years now I’ve come realise that a Scottish winter is like an angry dog scratching at your door, barking and salivating and waiting for you to come outside so it can gnaw on your leg, leaving you writhing in agony and suffering and questioning why you ever left the comfort of your slightly less damp and chilly flat. It’s been raining for weeks here in Glasgow, which is typical for January/February, and the flooding on some streets (while fun to drive through) are getting a bit out of control, and starting to feel a bit apocalyptic. In spite of the torrential weather, or perhaps as a result of it, I found myself once again bowing to the demands of my empty stomach, so I donned my layers, grabbed my umbrella, and left for a walk into the city centre of Glasgow to get some dinner (aka dat gravy).

After an uninspiringly wet walk through the centre of town, I arrived at a fully packed restaurant, the promise of a meal well served increasing with every accent variant that filled my ears, an international melody arising from the conversation of the full tables. It had been a proper Scottish rain outside, that mist that builds up on you without much heed but after a bit of time feels like you’ve just walked through a car wash, a sneaky wetness permeating slyly through your waterproof outer layer to the shirt underneath, a cold-infused dampness joining you as meal accompaniment. I cozied up to one of the booths and grabbed the paper menu, looking around at the juke-joint, neon-riddled, tchotchke-painted walls of a restaurant that wouldn’t be out of place in the southern United States, located here, in the middle of Scotland’s most vibrant city.

This was Buck’s Bar. Chicken — Liquor — Rock n’ Roll, served fast and with no faff, my eyes widened at the menu selection and I felt warmth at both the deluge of choice as well as the proper climate control within the establishment quickly removing traces of the deluge outside.

Service followed quickly and I ordered what I was there for — a gravy that was appropriate for a BBQ joint anywhere on the planet — a BBQ gravy. Alongside an order of their Nashville Hot Chicken, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. The last (and first) time I had a BBQ gravy I was in 37 degree celsius heat lining up in a shadeless parking lot at the local Rib Fest in Mississauga, Ontario in the middle of July. Now here, in opposite-world, I was seeking a gravy of redemption as the aforementioned sauce left me unimpressed. What is a BBQ gravy? Well of course it’s gravy with a flavour profile of BBQ sauce — brown sugar, ketchup, apple cider vinegar, Worcestershire sauce and possibly a hot sauce of some sort. A type of regional gravy that insists upon itself in an establishment adorned by large fairy lights above and a sticky floor beneath.

The gravy at Buck’s Bar, Glasgow, Scotland

This gravy could only be described as a blanket of familiarity — a warm, well coated chip with a hearty 80% opacity, a stand-out amongst previous weak sauce that is typically pervasive across the culinarily challenged landscape of a country that often feels like they’re still living in fear of the bombs when it comes to cuisine. Perhaps that’s a bit harsh; my palette is certainly not a refined one (THIS IS A GRAVY REVIEW BLOG), but after hearing someone once say that British cuisine could be fully summarised as taking something pink and heating it until brown I probably I do judge it a bit harshly — especially since previous gravy hunts in the UK have fallen a bit short of anything to the contrary.

It’s rare for a place here to do a good gravy, simply because they really don’t have to. When Bisto granules purchased at the local Tesco are the norm, there’s no real motivation to seek out something better — gravy here exists as a side dish, not as a sauce to be savoured and loved and appreciated in a way only a true glutton can admit to. So when I do discover something that reminds me of home, a taste of a memory long forgotten, a classic taste done properly amidst a sea of mediocrity, I’m reminded why I do this thankless task — for the love of the sauce.

I take one bite of this delicious nectar on a chip, and look down at my clothes. Smiling widely, I can only credit the warmth embrace of this delectable jus as the reason that my clothes are now fully dry.

4.5 out of 5