Bettys Tour 2019: York

York, seen by many as the capital of Yorkshire, is a place of great historical and religious significance: a walled city on the Rivers Foss and Ouse with roots as both a Roman and Viking settlement, a street plan in the centre which remains largely as it was in mediaeval times, and a more recent association with railways, chocolate and, of course, Bettys. For me, however, its significance is more personal in nature. Unlike Ilkley, Harrogate and Northallerton, I already knew York quite well before I arrived, having lived there for three years, initially as a student and later as a lecturer at the York branch of the College of Law. York is also the place where in a wider sense my Bettys Tour really started.  It was, therefore, with a sense of anticipation tinged with sadness that I arrived for the fourth and final leg of my Bettys Tour 2019: anticipation at the thought of reacquainting myself with a place I used to call home, and sadness that much of what originally connected me to that place is now no longer there.

On an everyday level York is surprisingly down-to-earth and ordinary. Even inside the city walls it’s a living place rather than a museum, with a mix of architectural styles demonstrating an ability throughout its history to move with the times without destroying the past. While it owes much to its Roman and Viking heritage, there’s a strong sense of the development that comes with the passage of time.

By contrast, the network of narrow streets close to the Minster feels almost timeless; so much has stayed the same since mediaeval times that the present feels relatively insignificant and the future doesn’t even get a look in. The shop fronts and the way people are dressed provide a veneer of modernity, but underneath there’s a sense that life in those streets is much the same as it would have been hundreds of years ago; noisy, energetic and bustling with a mixture of visitors, residents, street vendors and performers, albeit without the foul stench and the risk of a bucket of ordure being poured over your head from an upstairs window. Walking around that part of the city once again, the sense of continuity was as strong as ever.

Contributing to that sense of continuity is, of course, Bettys. As with Harrogate, there are two branches in York: the main branch, which I knew well from my childhood, and a smaller branch, which I would be visiting for the first time.

The branch of Bettys often referred to as Little Bettys is housed in a charming building on Stonegate, the narrow street that runs up from St Helen’s Square to the Minster. As soon as you open the door, you are greeted by the sound of a bell that rings in a reassuringly traditional way, before moving through the shop towards a rickety staircase leading up to the tea room on the first floor, which consists of a series of small rooms with low ceilings and creaking floorboards. Reminiscent of the setting for a Beatrix Potter story, it’s easy to imagine Ginger & Pickles running the shop downstairs and Tabitha Twitchit having a cup of tea with her cousin Ribby at the next table.

I sat down eagerly for elevenses, wishing that the waiter might have offered me a copy of The Pie and the Patty Pan to read instead of a newspaper. In case you are wondering, The Pie and the Patty Pan is my favourite Beatrix Potter story. It’s a fantastic tale of manners and social intrigue involving, somewhat appropriately, a tea party, a mouse pie without a patty-pan holding up the crust, a veal & ham pie with a patty-pan holding up the crust, two ovens, an unsuccessful attempt by Duchess (the guest) to substitute her veal & ham pie for the mouse pie prepared by Ribby (the hostess) as she can’t face eating minced mouse, and a major social faux pas when Duchess feels ill and causes a scene, thinking that she has eaten the patty-pan in her veal & ham pie when in actual fact she has eaten the minced mouse in Ribby’s pie and is suffering the consequences. Luckily, mouse pie isn’t served in Little Bettys, but the menu might benefit from a statement reassuring customers that patty-pan-free options are available. After all, you can never be too careful.

Mindful of the fact that I had exercised the Warm Treacle Tart option for elevenses in Harrogate, and the Bettys Matrix requirement for my overall consumption of Fat Rascals and Curd Tarts to be equal, I realised that I would have to choose something else in Little Bettys if I was to have a Fat Rascal for elevenses the following day (the importance of this will be explained later on). I was in the mood for something more delicate than the Warm Treacle Tart and so I decided instead to go for a Fondant Fancy. The first one (white with pink flowers) was delicious, but a little on the small side. I decided to have another, egged on by the waiter, a fellow Fondant Fancy lover who noticed my empty plate. After emphasising that he would do his best to ensure that the second one was a different colour (which we both agreed was highly important), he returned with one which was an appropriate shade of sugar pink with white flowers. You will be relieved to read that I ate both with a cake fork for full effect, despite the fact that I could probably have polished each one off in one go.

After elevenses I set off for a stroll around the city centre to regain my bearings. I noted with sadness the demise of the Taj Mahal and the King’s Ransom, the scenes for many Friday night curries with colleagues. I have particularly fond memories of the King’s Ransom as the place where, as a lecturer, I always received a student discount on the basis that, while the owner conceded that I had a connection with the College of Law, he refused to accept that I could possibly have been employed by such a respected institution, let alone be a qualified solicitor. To add insult to injury, he must have thought I was a fairly sad student, given that I appeared to spend my Friday nights with people he identified as lecturers. That said, they didn’t get the discount, and my inner Yorkshireman was more interested in beer money than professional recognition. Another highlight of my stroll was walking past the place not far from The Shambles, where Grandma Batty’s Yorkshire Pudding Emporium used to be when I was a student. Famed for the size of the Yorkshire puddings served with authentic Yorkshire delicacies such as chilli con carne, not to mention the ridiculous hats worn by the waiting staff and the generous student discount on offer, Grandma Batty’s was the place we all joked about, but couldn’t say that we’d never visited on a Friday night after a few pints. I’m not going to deny eating a Yorkshire pudding filled with chicken curry there, and throughly enjoying it. Now long gone, Grandma Batty’s lives on in my love of a Fray Bentos pie.

Once elevenses had had a chance to settle, it was back to Little Bettys for afternoon tea. Having departed slightly from the Bettys Matrix by choosing the Warm Treacle Tart in Harrogate and the Fondant Fancy earlier that day, I decided to throw caution to the wind. Lovely as the Yorkshire Cream Tea is, and much as I love a scone, the lure of the cake trolley was too much. I had watched it trundling round in Ilkley, Harrogate and Northallerton and now was the time to sample its delights.

Given that I was going off piste in quite a significant manner, not to mention the fact that the Bettys Tour was supposed to be a voyage of discovery, I started thinking about what I might have as I waited for the cake trolley to arrive. It occurred to me that I could use this as an opportunity to exorcise a few demons by having something based on choux pastry or even mille-feuille. I noticed with disappointment that the only éclair on offer was the Coffee Éclair, which was strictly off limits. Sorry Bettys, but my dislike of chocolate & orange is rivalled only by my dislike of coffee as a flavour for anything other than a hot drink. I might have eaten a couple of macarons over the last few days, but the Coffee Éclair was way outside my comfort zone. Perusing the cake trolley, I decided to go for the Fruit Meringue and the Vanilla Slice. As for the savoury element, I chose the Hot Buttered Pikelets. Now that I knew that they weren’t quite the same as crumpets, I realised that my life as a Yorkshireman wouldn’t be complete until I had eaten at least one.

The Fruit Meringue, while totally delicious, was a touch on the healthy side, with a surprisingly high proportion of fruit to meringue. The overall indulgence factor was, however, brought back to within acceptable parameters by a double dollop of whipped cream. When it was time to face the Vanilla Slice, I had a flashback to an occasion as a child when I tried to eat one in a café, only to end up with icing and crème patissière all over my face and fingers, and a severe telling-off. I shuddered inwardly, took a deep breath and tentatively pressed it with the cake fork. As I feared, the cake fork didn’t cut through, causing the Vanilla Slice instead to open up on one side and start to disgorge crème patissière onto the plate. I switched quickly to using the proper fork I had asked for, just to be on the safe side. With the help of that and a knife, I negotiated the Vanilla Slice successfully, avoiding slippage, leakage and a messy face and fingers. It was cake catharsis and the Vanilla Slice tasted all the better for it. I left Bettys with a spring in my step, having laid a particular demon to rest, and spent the rest of the day pottering about before going back to my hotel for a quiet night in.

The next day I was up early in readiness for my visit to the main branch of Bettys in York, which is located in a rather smart 1930s building on St Helen’s Square at the bottom of Stonegate. Although the carpet, furniture and ambience are the same as in all of the other branches, the wood-panelled basement room in the St Helen’s Square branch has special significance for me as the place where my Bettys Tour really started, when I was a little boy visiting York with my mum and granny for the first time. As a result, it was important to me that this should be the place where the tour came to an end.

Much like the mediaeval streets of York, the furniture and carpet in Bettys were different, but nothing fundamentally had changed. The room was as cosy and inviting as ever and I sat down with a sense not only of familiarity, but also of things coming full circle. Sitting on the next table were two small children with their parents. I thought back wistfully to previous visits with my mum and granny, wondering if either of those children might visit again in years to come and think back to that day in a similar way. When the waitress came to take my order, it was an easy decision. This was where I ate my first Fat Rascal, hence the importance of having one here rather than in Little Bettys the day before.

After elevenses, I set out on a walk to Bishopthorpe, a village a couple of miles from the city centre where the Archbishop’s palace is located. There’s a pub there called The Marcia, where I used to unwind after work with colleagues, and I fancied seeing how it had changed (as well as a cheeky afternoon pint). The walk involved passing the building where the College of Law used to be, coming full circle in a more literal sense by retracing my journey to work from Bishophill (where I lived as a lecturer) and my journey back home from lectures to South Bank (where I lived as a student).

Unlike the mediaeval centre of York, time has moved on in this part of the city, providing a tangible reminder that much of what formed part of my everyday life is now firmly in the past. These days Bishopthorpe Road has a rather hipster row of shops, Glen & Julio’s (the outrageously camp and maximalist salon run by two perma-tanned haircare professionals catering to the needs of ladies of a certain age) has closed its doors, and you no longer smell warm chocolate in the air when walking past the Terry’s factory. I didn’t pop into The Winning Post on my way past, but have a strong suspicion that it’s a long time since the landlord used an Every Second Counts clock displayed proudly behind the bar to call time. As for the College of Law, it moved to Leeds in 2014 and is now called the University of Law. The only evidence that it was ever there is provided by the bus stop outside. The sign still hasn’t been changed and I hope I’m not alone in wishing that it never will be.

When the final day of my tour arrived, all that remained was for me to make two further visits to the St Helen’s Square branch of Bettys, first for breakfast to sample the Yorkshire Rarebit, and later on for afternoon tea.

The Yorkshire Rarebit was as good as I had anticipated, served with all three of the chutneys on offer. I tucked in eagerly, sniggering to myself as I eavesdropped on the conversation taking place at the next table between two ladies of a certain age, both of whom had quite posh Yorkshire accents and a very provincial mindset. One of them would definitely have frequented Glen & Julio’s a few years before and by my estimation was a “Forever Forty”, using the Mary Portas classification of shopping tribes. The other was more traditional in her taste and definitely in the Per Una camp. Without wishing to reveal too much of what was said in order to spare their blushes, the conversation was prim, yet humorous and reassuringly familiar. In the way it gave an accurate insight into the manners and attitudes of a particular section of Yorkshire society, it was like listening to something by Alan Bennett. It’s not every day that you overhear someone with the Yorkshire equivalent of a Miss Jean Brodie accent mentioning in the same sentence a forthcoming shopping trip to London and a friend with a rather delicate affliction (which isn’t IBS, but you can’t be too careful).

After breakfast there was time for a quick potter before going to the station to meet my guest for afternoon tea. When planning my tour I very much hoped to use it as an opportunity not only to establish more of a connection with my home county, but also to lay the foundations for new traditions. In that context I couldn’t think of a better person to share that final afternoon tea with than my dad. I’d never been to Bettys with him before, so this would provide an ideal opportunity for us both to celebrate the past and look to the future.

Whereas years ago, whilst visiting York with my mum and granny, I would have spent the day traipsing about and shopping, this time my dad and I went to the Minster. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been inside, and his interest in church architecture made it the obvious thing to do. I have visited quite a few churches and cathedrals with him over the years, but this visit felt quite special in that it gave us an opportunity to spend some time together and establish our own connection with York. I even surprised myself by making a sensible comment about a perpendicular window, and using the word “reticulated” in a way which gave the impression that I knew what I was talking about. When it was time for tea, we strolled down Stonegate from the Minster and walked towards Bettys. This time, however, we weren’t going to be in the basement. In a final departure from tradition (and the Bettys Matrix), I had decided the day before to book a table in the Belmont Room, meaning that we dodged the queue and went upstairs via a separate entrance.

The Belmont Room is grand to put it mildly. Named after Frederick Belmont, the founder of Bettys, it’s a light and airy Art Deco enclave with table cloths, a calm atmosphere and a pianist playing in the background. Much as I will always love the wood-panelled basement room two floors below, the Belmont Room really was the perfect place for my Bettys Tour to end. We sat down eagerly, looking forward to a couple of hours of tea and treats in a place which neither of us had visited before. We weren’t disappointed.

Afternoon tea in the Belmont Room follows a very similar pattern to the format elsewhere in Bettys, the main difference being greater choice, unlimited “replenishments”, and a more tantalising selection of savoury items to get through before you reach the main attraction. Despite dainty appearances, everything was surprisingly filling, making it important not to overindulge and fall at the first hurdle.

The prawn starter was fantastic. Fresh and light, with a hint of chilli and lime, and served with a paprika crisp, it pepped up the appetite in readiness for the treats in store.

 

Then came a caramelised onion tart, served slightly warm. By the end of that, I was ticking over nicely. I poured myself a cup of tea and was ready to move on. The sandwiches were really good, especially the smoked salmon one served in a mini croissant. Although it sounds bizarre, it worked really well, so well in fact that I surprised myself and went for a sandwich replenishment. My dad, who doesn’t share my gluttonous streak, was already struggling and decided to hold back, so I performed my duty as a son and hoovered up his sandwiches. You might be wondering why, after all I have said about the strategic approach to afternoon tea and the perils of sandwich consumption, I made the schoolboy error of ordering extra savouries. The reason is that I was a little concerned by the amount of macaron action on the top tier of the cake stand and decided to load up more than usual on sandwiches in case of disappointment later on. I can’t go back to savoury after having something sweet, meaning that it was now or never as far as the sandwiches were concerned, and those mini croissants filled with salmon and cream cheese were very tasty indeed.

The scones were just the right size: smaller than the ones downstairs, but bearing in mind the richness of everything else being served, this was a good thing. My dad also struggled with his scones, so I polished off one of his. If they had been any bigger I wouldn’t have been in a position to be so supportive.

After a quick tea replenishment, providing an opportunity for me to switch from Darjeeling to Assam, it was time to move onto the top tier of the cake stand. I won’t deny that I was slightly disappointed to see a double decker macaron in place of the Engadine slice that I was looking forward to, but must confess that it was actually pretty good, with a delicate citrus sweetness. I also consoled myself with the thought that I could always have an Engadine slice another time. Then came a chocolate ganache, slightly smaller than the chocolate cube served downstairs, but richer and easier to handle. The pièce de résistance, however, was a little tart topped with a mousse shaped like a green apple, which was absolutely phenomenal. My dad admitted defeat after two of the three treats on the top tier, requiring me to step in once again.

By the end of tea, we were “replete with good things” as my grandpa used to say, and ready to go home. We discussed the possibility of making future trips to York involving afternoon tea (my dad’s an even bigger scrounger than I am, so he’ll never say no to a freebie). More importantly though, he considered the possibility of getting on the train and going for afternoon tea on his own in between my visits. In the same way that I enjoy associating Bettys with my mum and granny, I think he quite likes the idea of spending some time in a place that he can associate with his wife and mother. Standing on the platform at York station whilst waiting for the train back to Doncaster, we noted that while the Bettys Tour had finally come to an end, the journey was only just beginning.