Bettys (no apostrophe, please) - the taste of Yorkshire

We're pleased to publish our second guest blog post from Alison Barrow, a former student of the University of York and now Director of Media Relations at Transworld Publishers.

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A writer once gave me an exercise. "Close your eyes," she said. "If you concentrate really hard, the noises around you will sing out and you will pick up the most resonating sounds. Commit them to memory, and you will be able to transport yourself back anywhere, anytime."

The sounds emerging from Bettys wouldn't be the first to leap to mind when conjuring up the place. Smells, yes. Tastes, most certainly. But listen... close your eyes and you can hear it. The clink of silver on china, the swish of a crisp ironed pinny, the languorous pouring of tearoom blend, the scrape of butter on a Fat Rascal. And the sighs - the murmur of cafe chat and contented munching. The sipping of coffee. The "oh, go on then," reception of the cake trolley.

Little Bettys by Tania Ho
Used under a Creative Commons license.

Bettys was a rare treat in my student days. Somewhere to take a visiting relative (in the hope that they would cover the bill), a weekend indulgence with a friend - sharing a pot of tea for one and a fondant fancy. We would persuade ourselves we deserved it after a full week of lectures/exams/seminars/partying. Reassuringly comforting, Bettys on the corner of St Helens Square always had a queue. It was (and is) part of the ritual. Baby sister Little Bettys on Stonegate offered the shelter of a spiraling waiting line up the stairs - under cover from the rain. Sloping floors and well-trodden carpets emanated a sense of history. We would sit there for hours - or until the gentle hovering of a waitress would hurry us along.

I first went to Bettys as a young child in Harrogate, where I was born. The cafe then was on Cambridge Crescent, not the current domineering location on Montpelier Square, and my grandmother would slavishly order the same each visit. A pot of tearoom blend and a vanilla slice (for her) and a glass of chilled milk (full fat - for me). I have never understood the appeal of the vanilla slice, nor the curious method of tackling the mountain of it with a tiny dessert fork. When she had nearly finished - and this happened every time - she would offer a forkful over the table to me. It would have been rude to refuse.

When my family moved south, my parents would drive back to Harrogate, stopping in to see the relatives and dropping in to Bettys for curd tart (for my mother), Fat Rascals (for my father and brother) and pineapple fondant tarts - which made a fleeting appearance on the menu in the later years of the 20th century, but sadly are but a sticky memory - (for me). Does everyone have a favourite? A beloved colleague of mine introduced me to cinnamon toast many years ago. I associate it with him every time, that subtle blend of spice, buttery liquid and sugar, delicious. Thank you, Martin.

Bettys Tea Rooms by Steve Harris
Used under a Creative Commons license

From those sugar-encrusted memories to the present day - now we order Bettys tea, coffee and bakery online. I have a running account and have mailed many goods across the world, sharing a taste of Yorkshire. Now there is a coffee shop on many corners in York, in Harrogate, across the whole of Yorkshire, the country. Now there are a myriad of choices, of blends, of options. And yet. One constant remains. Thank you, Bettys, for standing firm and proud within the confines of Yorkshire, thank you for warming us with your enriching food and drink, polite service and company and for changing so very little over the years.

This week I will return to Bettys York once more. Along with a group of university friends from the 1980s, a day trip for a momentous birthday. Bettys for tea. What shall I have? I'm not really that sure yet (definitely not a vanilla slice). But one thing I know. For a moment, a fleeting moment so short nobody will ever notice it, I will close my eyes and hear the sound of Bettys. And once again, I'll be home.

Telling Tales

Photo: Stonegate Night bw by Ravensthorpe.
Reproduced under a Creative Commons licence.

Back in the 1980s student life at the University of York was uninterrupted by social media. The internet was in its infancy and computer science students booked their hour-long sessions in the computer block just down from the Library (where we searched for books on microfiche). For entertainment, there were TV sets in the common rooms. We hunkered down in front of The Young Ones and had all-night horror movie sessions, mesmerised by the special effects in American Werewolf in London. The JB Morrell was closed on Sundays. Some of us (whisper it) read books for fun. We read alone. We didn't talk about it. There were no book clubs, nor did we spend much time recommending to our friends. It wouldn't occur to us to do so.

Tales of the City was just six years old when first I discovered a copy in Godfreys bookshop in Stonegate. A story of a naive young assistant moving from sleepy Cleveland to wide awake, loud and colourful San Francisco was the peak of exotic adventure to a student from North Yorkshire. The girl on the (cord) phone on the cover looked so glamorous. Standing at the back of the shop I read 25 pages (to 'Edgar blows up') and that was it. Hooked. 60p a paperback. In the days when we extracted five pound notes from the cash points in Heslington to last a whole weekend, this purchase was a little luxury.

I loved Mary Ann Singleton. She was embarking on a whole new life adventure. (In later episodes, when Maupin turned his sharp pen to harden her character, I am momentarily saddened, but for now she was the girl I wanted to be.) After the weekend, I headed back into town, back to Godfreys to discover there were sequels - More Tales of the City, Further Tales of the City and one, deliciously entitled Babycakes. I read and reread, tracing every nuance, every development, laughing and weeping, but all alone. It never crossed my mind to share my love of these books. We just didn't, then.

Glide forward seven years and there I am, standing at the airport arrivals hall, holding my copy of Maybe the Moon. Feeling a little nervous, a little excited.

Alison Claire Barrow was twenty-one years old when quietly she discovered Armistead Maupin for the first time. Seven years later she is meeting him at Heathrow to accompany him on his UK book tour. Twenty nine years later (pinch me, where did that time go?) she is his long-term UK publicist and proudly out there and loud about it in this, her first ever blog, in the media, in events - and relentlessly on social media. How lucky am I? And still, in my head, sometimes I'm the girl back in Derwent College, flat out on the thin mattress of my bed on the second floor of A block, lit by the angle poise, reading and discovering Barbary Lane for the first time.

Alison Barrow
Director of Media Relations
Transworld Publishers