Burns' Formal Hall

As promised, I am providing a more thorough description of the single most authentic British event I've attended thus far, which was, ironically, a celebration of Scottish heritage. Confusing? Yes, many things are in this town bent on maintaining tradition while subscribing to modern trends.
First off, formal hall. What is it? I think I briefly covered it in the last posting, but just in case I didn't, formal hall is where we are served a four-course meal in the St. Peter's dining hall (they do this at each of the colleges, but on different nights, and in slightly different ways - it's my goal to get invited to at least one other college's formal hall by the end of term!) by the dining hall staff. Basically, it's just like eating out at a fancy restaurant, except the food isn't quite of the highest standards. The dress code is not as strongly enforced as one would suspect. The only required article of clothing is the standard Oxford gown. Coming from evensong, all of the choir is dressed in their finest. But other people have rolled in wearing just t-shirts and jeans, with the gown thrown sloppily over the ensemble. As I've said, traditions have become a little tainted over the years.
But this past Thursday was a particularly special formal hall. It was in dedication of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, whose birthday was sometime last week. The dress code for the evening (and this was quite strictly enforced) was black-tie. It seems that I came to Oxford woefully unprepared to meet the dress standards. Upon first signing up for the choir, I was told that I needed a dark suit, and that the navy blazer and khaki pants I had packed with what I considered judicious foresight would be of no use. Now, even my new black pants and jacket didn't meet the cut. I may have skirted around the code a little, by simply substituting out my necktie for a black bowtie someone lent me, but we won't tell anyone else that.
The dinner, however, didn't start until 7:30, and, the evensong service having concluded as early as 6:45, I was left with an awkward forty-five minutes to kill. Fortunately, some girls in the choir took pity on the lonely foreigner and invited me back to their room for tea. So I got to see a few more of the Oxford dorm rooms, hear more about the lives of the students here, and down a couple cups of tea, complete with biscuits (cookies). I could have gone home happy just then!
But at 7:30, we rolled out, dressed for the nines, and made the short walk over to the dining hall, where we were accosted immediately by the overwhelming music of a bagpipe. There was a very solemn-looking young man standing there at the foot of the stairs blasting away on the instrument. He didn't even smile for the pictures.
After getting our eardrums rattled, we made our way upstairs to the dining hall. We found our seats among the well-dressed crowd, but weren't actually allowed to sit. Rather, we just continued to stand in front of the huge wood table while the room gradually filled. Apparently it's a sign of disrespect to be sitting when the deans process in. It wasn't until the room was entirely filled that the deans (the heads of the school and various other professors, except we can't call them professors here, because it's offensive - a mistake I've already made on more than one occasion) regally processed in to take their place at the raised table on the far side of the room. Normally, at this time, one of them will recite a prayer in Latin (and I do mean recite, I don't believe this man has any more idea of what he's saying than the rest of the people in the room. I even caught some pronunciation errors. Magister would be proud), at the conclusion of which there is a significant pause while everyone looks around to ascertain that it is indeed finished, before echoing "Amen" and finally sitting down on the wooden benches that serve for chairs in the dining hall. Burns' night, however, called for a different means of grace. One of the administrators of the college, a Scottish chap himself, read a brief poem of Burns' that I believe was something akin to a grace, but couldn't be positive seeing as how I barely understood a word of it. Regardless, that read, we were finally granted permission to sit down.
Immediately upon sitting, the drinking began. I have my own personal theory that Europeans drink so much to try and keep out the cold. Whatever the reason, they certainly down any alcoholic beverage with gusto. A Scottish lad sitting close to me, one of the primary organizers of Burns' night, had brought whisky for the occasion, and was graciously dispensing minute volumes of the liquid for any to taste. I'll admit (and most will find this as no surprise) that this was my first taste of the stuff, and was definitely affected with a few quick coughs after the first drought. In addition to Neil's whisky, there were bottles of wine littering the table. It sounds a pretty far cry from the tables of the caf at Olaf I would imagine. Yes, everyone brings their own bottle of wine and gratuitously "tops up" (one of my favorite British phrases) his/her neighbor's glass, whether it need be filled or no. The wine glasses factor into yet another Oxford tradition known as "pennying." This involves dropping a penny into the wine glass of someone who's holding it, as opposed to leaving it sitting on the table, upon which the person is required to down the contents of the glass. And you could say that you're richer for the arrangement, but only by a mere penny, so there's no real compensation. You would think that they'd leave the poor foreigner alone in this trick upon his second entry into the mores of formal hall, but you would think wrong. I was caught holding my glass while filling it (of all times), and was forced to promptly drain what I'd just poured.
After a brief interim, the salad was brought out. Now, this could be due to an admitted ignorance of salads in general on my part, but I had no idea such a creation was possible. It was rather simple, consisting of only iceberg lettuce, but topped with a cut of cold salmon, complete with a lemon on the side. Accompanying the strange mixture were two pieces of buttered toast. Naturally, in my Norwegian way, I ate each of the portions separately. But I was surprised to see several people pile the lettuce and salmon onto a piece of toast and consume it all at once. Curious, indeed.
The main course was produced with a great display of pomp and circumstance. The dish was haggis, traditional Scottish fare. I was informed that it consists mainly of sheep innards mixed in with oatmeal and cooked in herbs in a sheep's stomach. Yep. I was really excited to try that one. The cook proudly brought out the sheep's stomach from the oven and processed around the dining hall with it, up and down the rows of tables, following behind the bagpiper who was piping away in military fashion. After laying it reverently on the head table, both of them retreated to the kitchen, upon which Neil, the whisky provider, stood up and delivered dramatically another of Burns' poems, this one specifically about haggis. He completed the performance with thrusts and stabs of a knife into and across the stomach containing our dinner. Very Shakespearean. Or medieval. The point being, both ancient, and really not something you'd find anywhere but here. The waiters then brought out our individual portions of the meal, and we tucked into our dinner, which was complimented by "neaps and taters" (which I sincerely hope I spelled correctly - apologies for any mistakes), the Scottish name for turnips and mashed potatoes. I'll have to admit that the haggis actually wasn't bad. If you manage to forget what it is you're eating, it actually tastes pretty good. I'll leave that to your discretion should you ever chance upon an opportunity to try it. Dessert was something different as well, although I'm not sure if it's particularly Scottish. It was cream and raspberries, the cream having some oats mixed in. It wasn't exactly what my sweet tooth was craving, but it still suited the evening nicely.
To top the event off, some other Scottish members of the assembly had prepared speeches to deliver, each of them (for one of the speakers was a male and the other a female) to speak about lasses and lads, respectively. At the end of the orations, Dr. Allen, the choir director, who is the senior dean at the college, banged his gavel (I think I forgot to mention that he wielded an enormous wooden mallet for the evening, which he'd bang on a pad at his elbow to get our attention, just like a judge presiding over a court, although one can only guess the nature of our crimes), at which we stood up and sang a rousing rendition of Auld Lang Syne. It didn't help that I had no idea what the lyrics were, but I joined in the melody with all the fervor of a former Viking chorister. And with that, the deans marched out of the room, and we were left to find our way out of the throng. Most of the students go from formal hall to the Oxford student union. Unfortunately, membership in the union is in the neighborhood of 170 quid, so it makes little sense to those of us studying here for a semester to join. So I instead came back to my room and failed miserably trying to write about Aristotle's theory of friendship. Rather a glum ending to an incredible evening. Please don't hold it against me!
But anyway, I thought I'd share that night with you. I know there's not a whole lot of excitement around these parts, what with everyone cooped up in one of the fifty libraries around town all the time, so I thought I'd share at least one of the fun activities. Hope you're all doing well!