From Adam Smith to John Logie Baird, Scotland has made innumerable contributions to world culture. But there is one Scotch invention so brilliant–so vital to the world’s well-being–that it trumps even modern economics and the television. I refer, of course, to the deep-fried Mars bar.

I had already sampled this delicacy during my recent stay in Edinburgh, but Lauren had yet to do so. Equality being the foundation of the modern marriage, it wouldn’t do to have one spouse so far ahead of the other in culinary experience, and so, on a recent trip to Glasgow, Lauren made sampling this delicacy her prime priority.
At first, things looked bad. We had read that Scotland had the highest rate of heart disease in the United Kingdom, and one of the highest rates in the developed world. Yet despite this promising statistic, we couldn’t find a single fish-and-chip shop anywhere on Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow’s prime tourist area. We rapidly concluded that the denizens of the area containing the Willow Tea Rooms–a restored masterpiece of refined Art Nouveau design–were unlikely to cover a candy bar in beer batter and soak it in boiling oil.
And so we turned, instead, to The Barras. The Barras was once a market where traders sold goods out of wheelbarrows–hence the name. It is now the kind of place where people sell DVDs of movies that are still in the theater, in cases with covers that were clearly printed on a home inkjet printer, which rest on top of open wooden boxes that could easily be slammed shut if a policeman hove into view. As somebody who makes a living from the creation of intellectual property, I am normally personally insulted by film pirates. However, like most Americans, I find the Scottish burr so appealing that it makes the most nefariouis activities seem charming. (If Osama Bin Laden were really serious about converting the US, he’d start his next public statement with, “Who amoong ye wuld turn doon a wee bit o’ jihad?”) For their part, the Scots clearly return the affection. Within one block of The Barras, we spotted Al Capone’s Bar, The John Gotti Snack Shop, and The Untouchables wallpaper and paint discount warehouse.
Given that the merchants of The Barras are hardy adventurers who who idolize Al Capone and scoff at the might of the MPAA, it is no surprise that mere cholesterol holds no fear for them. There were a good half dozen chip shops dotting the block. One by one, we entered and asked for a deep-fried Mars bar. At each one, we were met with a polite shake of the head. Finally, in desperation, Lauren tried the closest thing on the menu: a deep-fried pizza.
We half expected a hidden camera crew to leap out at that moment, snickering at us for believing that such a thing existed. Instead, the man behind the counter produced a pre-baked pizza, cut it in half, and dropped it in the deep fat fryer. When it was cooked, he put it on a piece of wax paper and asked, “Would you like salt and vinegar on it?”
Lauren gave the only answer one can give to a question like that: “Yes.” He blotted out the grease from the top of the pizza, applied the appropriate condiments, wrapped it up, and handed it over. We accepted it and headed outside–people were smoking in the restaurant, and we didn’t want to eat our salted, vinegar-drenched, deep-fried pizza in such an unhealthy environment.
Then we ate it. We were surprised to find that it was tasty, but we shouldn’t have been; according to some fundamental law of nature, anything in the world is tasty if you fry it and add salt and vinegar.
But as good as it was, it was no Mars bar. There was only one place left for us to turn: Ruby’s Chip Shop.
Ruby’s Chip Shop had made the news recently for serving “The Stonner,” a 1000 calorie deep-fried pork sausage kabob that is widely recognized as the most dangerous meal in Britain. Surely they would not turn us away Marsless.
Later that evening, therefore, we trekked to the other side of town. We knew we were in the right place when we saw a sign in the window, warning that for health reasons, they would refuse to serve more than one Stonner per customer per week.
We entered nervously; this was our last hope. “Do you do deep-fried Mars bars?”
“No,” the man behind the counter said. “Stonner?”
“No, we wanted a deep-fried Mars bar.”
He shrugged amiably. “Well, bring one in, and I’ll fry one for you.”
We did, and he did. He even refused to accept money for the use of his hot oil and batter. Heading outside to eat it in the fresh Glasgow air, Lauren took a bite.
The heat of the fryer had melted the caramel and the chocolate, while the batter helped it hold its shape, so that the thing collapsed when she bit into it and covered itself in caramel sauce. “Wow. Wow. Wow,” she said. I took a bite, and agreed.
Definitely better than television.