Over the years I have developed a glowing adoration for greasy spoon cafe’s all over the city. I say “over the years” because when I was young I used to hate being dragged through their dingy doors with my mother and grandmother. While they’d natter over tea and toast I’d perch uncomfortably on the edge of my seat, taking care not to touch anything without first covering my hand with my jumper and glaring untrustingly at the greasy smears all over the glass of juice placed in front of me.

I think my change of heart came somewhere between growing out of my spoiled brat attitude and five years spent being  “toughened up” in The Vale Bar. In the time I’ve worked there I feel like I’ve created an affinity with the grizzly part of the Glaswegian community. True, I wouldn’t akin myself to the type of auld bastard that shits himself  and waits to finish his pint before leaving the premises, but I certainly feel comfortable – at home, even. I know that I’ve come a long way from the awkward teen straight out of private school who poured a poor pint and hadn’t heard the word “Jaiket” in her  life and I think I’m a lot better for this further education, too.

So hiding from the rain in the tiny booth of the Val D’Oro restaurant at Glasgow Cross felt like pretty much the perfect way to spend a cold and wet Glasgow afternoon yesterday. I loved everything about the place, the smell of the chip fat, the tiny council telly above the till, the steamed up windows. The comforting piles of soft, greasy chips and the strong tea served in cracked mugs. The smell of burnt cheese wafting from the kitchen past rows and rows of framed pictures and newspaper cuttings of the Cafe. The tiny menu’s advertising “The Great Glasgow Fish Tea” and signs stating Val D’Oro to be the oldest “chippy” in Glasgow.  The woman waiting on the tables with two black eyes and the prying customer who replied “That’s what all you Scottish women say” when she told him she fell on the pavement. Glasgow.

Greasy chips.

Cafe Val D'Oro taken from Billielolasorcha's Flickr

It was with a grudging reluctance that I had to leave the sleepy humidity of the café and once again venture out into the wet, cold April afternoon. But it was surprisingly comforting to know that this little time warp in the Trongate and so many like it would be here despite credit crunches, recessions and the passing of generations. It certainly brought me back anyway.