Fine food amid the madness

The last few weeks have been a tad bonkers on the work front – hence the paucity of posts – but the cooking and eating have been maintained reasonably well, even if the time to write everything up has been lacking.

Here’s a sketched view of the eating-out side of things – the home nosh will (I hope!) follow in due course.

Last weekend, I was in Glasgow briefly for work, and on the Saturday, we had our traditional staff dinner – this year, at a restaurant called The Living Room.

For those who may recall the story of our meal this time last year, you’ll be reassured to read that this was much, much better.

Nice service and some very nice food.

I had a chicken liver parfait to start, with a redcurrant and port jelly. Now, it wasn’t so much a “jelly” as a sauce, and the parfait wasn’t really set quite enough, but it did taste good and the presentation was good too.

My main course smoked haddock, with a mustard mash, wilted spinach, a poached egg and hollandaise sauce. Very good; very nice.

And for dessert, a chocolate and salted caramel tart with a little vanilla ice cream. The tart wasn’t as I’d expected, but was light and very tasty.

Portion size was excellent – not ridiculously large – and there was a decent selection of wines that started at under £20. We had a La Croix Vermentino – a sauvignon blanc from the south of France. My colleagues, remembering last year’s debacle over the wine prices, made me select again – simply because I had initially stated that I wouldn’t.

The bottle was £16.75 – the second cheapest on the menu, which kept them all happy. It was light, fresh and had alcohol in it. Personally, I’d have selected something different – but I know where that got me last year!

The service was pleasant and helpful. My only real complain would be the noise. It’s busy to start with, so having an amplified live pianist-singer made it very difficult to converse, even though our party was in a sort of side room.

Glasgow ended chaotically, with my Sunday evening flight back to London cancelled due to fog at City Airport. I was then rescheduled for a Heathrow flight at around the same time. So no problem.

But what I didn’t know was that Heathrow was fogged in too. With my baggage already checked in, they couldn’t transfer me to a Stanstead flight.

When would we be likely to depart? Oh, about sixish. Oh, about eightish. Oh, about tennish.

At that stage, I walked out, went across the road, checked into a Holiday Inn and slept. The following morning, back in the airport itself before 7am, I discovered that one flight had already been cancelled for the same reason – but that they were ‘hopeful’ of things sorting themselves out sometime soon.

I rescued my bag, got a cab back into the city centre and caught a train with five minutes to spare, finally arriving back into London at almost 12.15pm. Knackered.

After just a short respite, it was off again on Thursday – this time, to Leeds for my niece’s graduation.

Staying at the same hotel as my parents, I had to show them the hotel’s menu that evening in order to convince them that it was limited and pricey, and my idea of a nearby restaurant I’d tried, earlier this year, was far better.

I got the three of us into Sous le Nez – and we made it in time to make use of the excellent value early evening menu – £24.95 per person for three courses, plus a half bottle of wine each.

Here, I enjoyed a nice chicken liver parfait – much more set than in Glasgow and, I think, the better for it, even if it didn’t have such a creative source/jelly.

It came with a muffin-like brioche and some piccalilli. Good stuff.

For a main, I opted for seared pigeon breast with mustard horseradish and parsley mash, chorizo and a thyme jus.

The bird was lovely – I did find the large disco of chorizo very tough and, to be honest, I don’t think it really added anything.

For dessert, I went simple, with a duo of sorbets – blackcurrant and lemon.

My parents enjoyed it too – in spite of their general aversion to all things French.

The following night, after an amazing day – and one that was emotionally exhausting, for various reasons – we went to Brasserie Blanc with my niece and her boyfriend, for a celebration dinner.

The restaurant was her choice. My mother, although utterly accepting that it was her granddaughter’s day and her choice, had been nervous.

Two weeks before, I’d sat down and read the entire menu to her over the phone, to reassure her that there would be plenty to choose from that they could eat: French food, in other words, is not just mussels and frogs’ legs and snails.

It’s interesting that, I realised, neither of them had a real clue about the massive influence of classic French cooking.

They started with a celeriac and apple soup – and both raved. I’m afraid I cringed when they ordered rack of lamb – well done – but they enjoyed it and that’s really the only thing that matters.

I opted for confit chicken, haricot bean & prune terrine as a starter – a fascinating creation with remarkably light texture and an intriguing taste.

After that, a special of the day – pork leg confit, with a riff on mushy peas (crushed garden peas with rosemary) and they swapped the new potatoes for a carrot and swede mash for me.

Yes, I know it was all going a bit OTT on the confit front, but I decided I really was just too tempted. Very nice it was too: moist and tasty. The whole dish was delightfully colourful.

For dessert, I just about managed a leafed dark chocolate slice, which was really a slice of torte with three different textures to it: a dense sponge-like centre, with surprises of crispiness, and a ganache on top. Very good.

We had a bottle of rosé between us: the men finished with good whisky, my niece with a champagne cocktail, my mother with coffee and me with a glass of Muscat.

Another most enjoyable meal – and also very good value, and cheaper that the hotel.

Now, more travel awaits: on Tuesday, I head to Birmingham for one night for work. And then, on Thursday evening, it’s off to Paris for some Christmas shopping and, of course, some rather good food.

No bookie would give me odds on the meal on the Eurostar not being massively better than the filled ‘croissant’ that East Coast Mainline served on the way back from Leeds.

Two fine French meals and the trip ends with something inspipid and damp and cold and lacking in any of the buttery crispness and flakiness of the real thing – the real French thing.

Still, it’s probably good to be reminded of how poor food can be sometimes – just so you really do appreciate the good stuff.

The Scottish odyssey comes to a close


The name of Stravaigin, which has sat on Gibson Road at the heart of Kelvin
bridge since 1994, means ‘to wander’ and its ethos of “think global, eat local” seems to match perfectly.

The influences on its food may be wide, but it aims to be as local as possible when it comes to sourcing produce. And the menu is evidence of just what variety that can mean.

It was the final stop on my whistle-stop tour of Scottish gastronomy and a unique experience it turned out to be.

Arriving in good time, I was shown into the basement dining room. There were just two other diners, as I sat in a snug, warm corner and dived into the menu.

I’d hoped to find scallops and black pudding – as suggested by the online version of the menu – but they’d apparently been struggling to get any of quality and this was off the menu.

So instead, I finally did something that I’ve been tempted to do before in restaurants, but always backed out of, as though it would look ‘bad’: I choose two starters.

In fact, it allowed me to try more soup. This time, chef’s special of “Ramsey’s smoked ham hough and split pea soup”. Ramsey’s are “butchers of distinction since 1857” from Carluke.

Surprisingly, there was a real lightness to the dish, with pea shoots lending a freshness to the pea base and garlic croutons that were as light as air. The ham flaked beautifully and the whole thing had no saltiness about it, but a very pleasing pepperiness.

And on the side there was a bowl of lovely moist, chunky cumin humous, with bread that's made by Andy Wilson of differentbreid.

Roast parsnip and Lanark blue cheese fritters, with a thyme aioli and dressed leaves, followed. A nice combination that was surprisingly filling.

By this time, the other two diners had finished and left. The entire dining room was my domain and mine alone. And in between courses, I chatted with waitress Eleanor, who shared my foodie enthusiasm and was delighted to provide unexpected company – something she’d rarely have the chance to do because they’re usually a great deal busier.

My final course was a “Belgian chocolate cushion” – that’s a light sponge, heavy only in the glorious bitter richness of the chocolate, to you and me – which came with milk and honey ice cream and pistachio sabayon. Very nice it was too: the intensity of the sabayon was astonishing.

And then it was back top the hotel and packing for my return.

But what impressions did I bring away with me from this little odyssey?

Scottish produce was as good as I’d hoped to find. And I’d include the black pudding and haggis I brought home, plus the steak pie I ate while standing in the chill air on Crow Road. I won’t include the food I ate at the hotel.

Most memorable single course was, I think, the Marrbury smoked salmon at Rogano. It epitomised the whole philosophy of excellent produce and it also arrived at exactly the right moment for me, after reading those comments from Raymond Blanc on tasting.

The best meal was, without doubt, Two Fat Ladies at the Buttery. Fish and game of a really superior quality – and super prices making it incredible value.

I don’t think I’ll forget that woodpigeon for some considerable time.

The cullen skink at Rab Ha’s was great too – I’m going to try to reproduce that before very long – as was the pea and ham soup at Stravaigin.

So on the basis of what I experienced, Scottish food is in rude health. And the belief in the quality of ingredients and the simplicity of preparation is at the heart of it – and thank goodness for that!

It's a gateway to heaven at Two Fat Ladies

Two Fat Ladies at The Buttery has nothing to do with the Two Fat Ladies of TV fame. It’s named for the bingo call of the street number – 88 – that was where the first of four ‘Two Fats’ (as it is commonly known in Glasgow) opened, 21 years ago.

So it's nowhere near as old as Rogano, where I'd eaten two days earlier, but quite long enough in the tooth to have established itself firmly on the city’s eating scene.

It was, however, one of my non-recommended picks, found via a spot of Googling for the best Scottish fodder in the city. It’s renowned, apparently, for its fish.

Sunday lunch saw the culmination of my initial duties in Glasgow and I’d arranged to meet with friends straight after. We traveled first to the main – well, oldest anyway – campus of Glasgow University, for a quiet amble (with cameras) amid the fabulous Gothic buildings. The university was founded in the 1400s and the present site was started in the following century.

It might have made one think of Tom Sharpe’s Porterhouse Blue and Harry Potter, but it’s also a reminder of just what a centre of learning Scotland has been and remains today.

The day was grayish and far from warm, but it was a joy to have the cobwebs blown away in good company.

And so to lunch.

We were each handed a set menu and the à la carte one. All three of us spent an age choosing – there was nothing you wouldn’t have fancied trying. In the end, in an act of astonishing culinary solidarity and great-minds-thinking-alike, we all picked the same starter and main course from the set menu.

First up – pan-fried fillet of sea bream on creamed leeks with fennel oil. As one of my fellow diners put it: what a joy to find a chef who’s cooking with butter!

This was so, SO good that I ate the skin; crisp and seasoned with flakes of salt. The flesh was perfect – soft yet firm, moist and brim full of taste. The sauce was creamy and rich but still light.

Our joint choice for a main course was roast woodland pigeon served on shredded cabbage with a redcurrant jus.

Where do I start? Well, the wonderful meat was gloriously pink in the middle; so tender, so full of flavour. Parfait! as the French might say.

Red cabbage is far from my favourite, but this was wonderful: still with bite, but also soft and sweet. The jus added the necessary sharpness. It was all perfectly balanced. And there were delightfully roasted potatoes, courgettes and carrots on the side.

We went our separate ways for dessert. I chose a golden syrup tart with whisky ice cream. Oh dear. They were out of the whisky ice cream. I had to make do with honeycomb ice cream instead. The sacrifice!

I’ve read that most restaurants – most chefs – have a weaker point within their repertoire. It might be dessert – but it might be their fish. Their pastry might be stunning, but their vegetables let them down a tad.

Well, none of us could find a weakness in this meal. It was all simply wonderful. And the service was excellent too: friendly and relaxed, yet attentive when it needed to be.

Wine was available by the glass, in three sizes, and there was a decent list to choose from.

And as a bonus for me, the portions were a perfect size – I almost licked every plate clean!

I did say "almost".

So for one of Glasgow’s top eateries, what about the price?

Well anyone who has been paying attention knows I’m beginning to obsess about how people are conned into thinking they cannot eat really, really well, because they’d need a second mortgage to do so.

But those three courses were a whopping £18.50 per head. Or rather, a not-so-whopping £18.50.

The more I think about that price, the more I realise what an absolute bargain Two Fat Ladies at The Buttery is.

Later, spending a quiet evening back at the hotel, I went outside for a fag break and got talking to a young woman who was up for a trade show at the next-door exhibition centre. She’d just been to exactly the same restaurant – and was raving too.

My friends had been thinking that such a place would normally be out of their own remit. By the end of the meal, knowing the price, they were planning a return.

What more needs to be said? Superb Scottish food, superbly cooked and presented, with service to match. This is what good eating is about – and it will be some considerable time before I forget this fabulous meal.

You take the high road ...

Glasgow: extremely cold and, by and large, either very cloudy or just downright foggy. Although somehow, ‘A foggy day, in Glasgow town’ ... doesn’t carry quite as much charm when one is standing outside a hotel/conference centre right next to the river, gasping at a fag and freezing one’s metaphoricals off. But then again, Gershwin never wrote about it and the lady Ella never sang about it.

But outside of the business that brought me here, there has been plenty to experience – and much to make my foodie heart sing.

It all began at Heathrow on Friday morning - I had to leave home at 5.30am, for goodness sake! - with a still-early breakfast after I’d got through security.

I went to Hawley’s and ordered eggs Benedict. Eggs okay, muffin so-so (sodden with sauce), ham not bad, but hollandaise most definitely not the best I’ve had. Well, I could taste the vinegar, that was for sure.

Having said that, looking at the breakfast that they then offered us in flight (I didn’t need anything other than tea, thankfully), I’d made the best choice. Not the complimentary one, but the best one.

When we arrived, Glasgow was bathed in a brittle sunshine, with a thick frost everywhere reminding you that yes, it is still winter.

My cab driver from the airport made cursory conversation to start with and then settled into an odd silence that was punctuated at apparently random points with: “Aye” and “aye” and even “aye”, for good measure.

Despite the varied intonation, I remain clueless as to the meaning or purpose – although I was later informed that that is the default sound made at regular intervals by any Glasgwegian husband.

Arriving at the hotel with a little time to spare before my work started, I needed lunch and, since there’s nothing near enough to use as an easy alternative, it was a case of selecting something from the bar menu in the hotel, with that old staple of scampi and chips winning out.

The scampi was reformed but at least hot and freshly cooked; the chips were equally okay (but not handcut). And it was all hotel expensive. In other words, with a diet Coke, over £11.

Things absolutely had to get better.

After an afternoon’s work, I tidied up, ordered a cab and sat down to wait with a pre-meal G&T.

Rogano, an Art Deco restaurant that first opened its doors in 1935, while the Queen Mary was being built on the Clyde, was calling.

On the flight up, I had started reading A Taste of My Life by Raymond Blanc. I already sense that it might become a personal bible.

One of the things that had already struck me, by the time I left for Rogano, was Blanc’s initial thoughts on taste. No, not the: ‘I’ve got good taste and you haven’t’ sort of snobbishness, but the whole idea of taking the time to think and really experience what we eat: to taste.

One of the joys about eating on your own is that that is easier to do. Although I realised quite early on at Rogano that I still have a tendency to rush my food rather than relish it when alone. I made a deliberate effort to deal with that.

I had already ordered when they planted in front of me a complimentary espresso cup of scallop bisque with chives.

Now that was a bit special – a heady, intense taste of scallop (from the corals, presumably, given the rich colour).

And then came my ‘real’ starter, a plate of Marrbury smoked salmon. I had enquired for more detail. A charming young waiter went off and got it for me: this was salmon from Dumfries, oak smoked, with juniper and whisky.

And what did it taste like? Well, I shut my eyes and tasted. And worked at taking my time. And worked at thinking and letting the food work its magic on me. And the taste was incredible.

There was the wonderfully subtle smokiness first – and then slowly I found myself getting the whisky. This was an extraordinarily long taste. And there was the oiliness of the fish, contrasted with the sharpness of the lemon (presented as a half of a fruit, wrapped in muslin and tied with a bow, which meant you could squeeze all you liked, but it wasn’t going to spit pips onto your fish. And it looked lovely too). A sense of the muscularity of the fish – having been farmed in an environment where tides were at play.

This was a very special experience – like seeing in technicolour or 3D for the first time: dizzying, almost. Magnificent produce, superbly prepared and then combined with a sense of really learning; of progressing.

I had, however, made the mistake of ordering the fish of the day for my main, a fresh water trout with vermouth butter. The sauce was wonderful, but the fish seemed a little dry and flavourless. It suffered, I think, by comparison with the salmon – a fight it was never going to win.

There were only quite heavy desserts on the menu, so I asked if they’d got ice cream. They had. It was hardly spectacular, but it would be churlish to whinge. They were gracious enough to find what I needed at that exact juncture.

The setting was wonderful. The service was its equal: young staff, almost all from Scotland; attentive and helpful and friendly. And I was allowed to create a little bubble around myself to relish the food.

It’s not cheap – but then the main issue on this score is the wine. It's a fine list, but little that I could see by the glass. I had a small bottle of 2008 Gewurztraminer from Gustave Lorentz in Alsace and it was very nice indeed, but it did the most damage to my purse.

However, finally we were really on track. I returned to my hotel a happy bunny.

The next morning, I awoke to freezing fog on the Clyde and a greater variety of food products at breakfast than I have ever seen, including haggis, black pudding and square sausage. And no, I am not making the latter up.

I pigged out at breakfast (it saves money at lunchtime). I settled for haggis, bacon, black pudding and square sausage. The pudding was crozzled pretty much beyond eating. The ‘square’ sausage (which was rectangular) was rather heavy. The haggis was over spicy for me.

Lunch was a skimped affair – two choc chip shortbread biscuits in my room as I did some work.

Then, in the evening, it was off to Rab Ha’s. It started in chaos. The hotel said there was no need to book a cab – there’d always be one outside. Come the hour, there was a distinct absence of any cab. They had to order. I was 10 minutes late (having rung to advise). Then it simply seemed like a crowded and noisy pub before I was finally guided to the restaurant downstairs.

Once there, it was time to relax. The décor might be tartan wallpaper, but it’s remarkably subtly done and feels incredibly snug and welcoming.

Indeed, by and large, Rab Ha’s might not be big, but it is clever.

I made the ‘mistake’ of choosing cullen skink as my starter – an absolutely delightful classic Scottish soup of smoked haddock, onion, potato and cream. Really rustic stuff. Soothing (see the smoked haddock risotto at Brasserie Blanc in Bristol) and, of course, rather filling.

Given my notoriously small capacity, it was a mistake, but not in any other way – and indeed, it was on my list of specific dishes that I wanted to taste while here. I was not disappointed.

But it did ruin my appetite for a second course, for which I’d selected venison on a rooty mash, with a deep, dark gravy.

The meat seemed rather grainy in texture and was a tad over-cooked – hardly any remaining pink, even in the middle – and the mash was odd really, being smooth in places and rather chunky and stringy in others.

But they had decent wine by the glass. Which avoided the issues of the night before. And given that I couldn’t get through anywhere near all my venison, I skipped dessert entirely – partly in shame from not having been able to eat as much of the venison as I would have liked.

However, night two and in essence, we’re doing well. I will remember the cullen skink at Rab Ha's. I will remember the smoked salmon at Rogano for a very long time as, I think, a seminal moment in my understanding of food (and thanks to Mary for the recommendation).

This Scottish food odyssey is certainly not a disaster. And hopefully, there’s plenty more to come.

Earthy, easy food for a lazy day

A combination of holiday laziness and teeth that are still a bit nightmarish to gnash with has, since Boxing Day, been creating a dual question: what to eat and what can I eat?

I still get a touch of the ‘Protestant work ethic’ about cooking – as though it should feel a lot more like serious toil if I’m Doing It Properly.

Perhaps that’s a widespread British view: cooking – food – as another form of toil and, therefore, something to largely be avoided (except at Christmas, obviously, when it becomes a nightmare.

But today has actually seen two new culinary experiments – experiments for me, at any rate. And both required ‘proper’ cooking and some thought, but also provided an eating experience that wasn’t nearly destroyed by the tentativeness of my new masticatory equipment.

It was another pleasantly relaxed start to the day, with coffee, books and cuddling cats seeing off a grey and damp morning.

Which leaves you with the dilemma of what to open the day’s eating with.

Michel Roux’s Eggs includes a series of recipes for baked eggs, from the most basic version to rather more complex ones. It’s not something I’ve ever done. I don’t know why – we both like eggs – and when you read that basic recipe, it’s hardly complex or time-consuming.

There’s also a recipe for baked eggs in The Stornaway Black Pudding Bible by Seumas MacInnes – with black pudding, of course – but for reasons that will become clear later, I decided not to use that one today.

Not only do I still feel the eyes of that old work ethic watching over the shoulder of my culinary endeavours, there’s also a side of me that is actually rather lazy and wants to know whether there are short cuts to some things. Today, that was a question of wondering whether I could simply grease the ramekins with one of the pieces of butter paper that are stashed in the fridge.

But no. Stop it. After all, melting a little butter in a pan is hardly onerous, is it?

My self-appointed sous chef and food taster in chief was on hand to make sure that no corners were cut. On the basis of last night, when I was getting a bit fraught while doing my predictably last-minute tax return, Otto seems to have decided that she’s my accountant too.

So, melt a little butter and then brush it on the inside of the ramekins, to a centimetre from the top. Then season lightly. Crack the eggs into a saucer, one at a time, and tip each one into the prepared ramekin.

Since this was a brunch, I used a couple of larger ramekins and did two eggs per person.

Finally, drizzle some double cream over the top, avoiding the yolks.

Put the ramekins into a tin or dish, pour boiling water to half way up the side of the little pots and pop into an oven that’s been preheated to 170˚ and cook for around 10 minutes.

That temperature is for a fan-assisted oven, by the way – although mine still takes longer than Monsieur Roux’s.

Check to see how they’re doing: the yolks should be just set. If they’re not – or if you like them a little firmer – just give them another few minutes.

And in the meantime, you can contemplate why something that describes itself as ‘double cream’ on a container is so often barely any thicker than single cream.

It is a long-held and oft-repeated complaint of my mother’s – which is rather odd really, given her puritanical pronouncements on food pleasure. Because proper double cream is about nothing but pleasure.

Not that she’s wrong: even that supposedly classier supermarket, Waitrose, stocks single cream, double cream – and then extra thick double cream.

Fortunately, La Bouche on Broadway Market sells Langley’s double cream, which is seriously thick and utterly gorgeous.

Anyway, the baked eggs (with proper double cream) were delicious. And hardly a difficult prep or cook.

Musing over what to serve for dinner later, my mind drifted back to a browse through that Stornaway book and to a recipe for black pudding dumplings.

Now, there is plenty of black pudding in the fridge for a reason, so it was simply a question of what sort of stew/casserole to make for such dumplings.

I diced an onion and softened that in butter before adding chopped garlic and then a couple each of chopped parsnips and carrots. Then in went some roughly sliced black pudding (about 100g) and some thawed (and heated) beef stock.

Bring to boil, then turn down to a simmer and leave until the veg are getting nice and tender, which is around half an hour.

For two people, the stuffing recipe requires 125g of self-raising flour, sifted with ¼ teaspoon baking powder. Then add 30g of shredded suet and 50g of chopped black pud. The recipe also included a tablespoon full of chopped spring onion, but I didn’t have any in the house, so hard cheese, as they say.

You add as much water as is required to make a stiff dough and then mix into balls. Pop onto the top of your stew for 20 minutes – or into a separate pan of boiling water. This is the only fiddly bit – the instructions suggested using two spoons, as I’ve seen suggested for making quenelles. But not having done anything like that before, it was a tad awkward.

Finally, slice some more black pudding and warm gently in a pan with a little oil. Use this as a sort of garnish. What you’ve effectively got is three different hits of the black pudding: pretty much melted in the stew itself, mingled with the dumpling mix and then the slight crispness of the fried pieces.

And in general, the taste of the whole is good and earthy and warming. Next time, though, I’ll serve it with a dollop of mustard on the side.

So given all that black pudding, that was why I’d not done MacInnes’s baked eggs earlier in the day.

Last night, via the joys of Facebook, Graeme reminded me that MacInnes also runs the famous and award-winning Gandolfi Café in Glasgow, where he has created and continues to cook a lot of his black pudding dishes.

Now, my first work trip of the coming year will be to that city – I’m starting to wonder whether I can squeeze enough time out of a busy schedule to pay a visit – and thank you in advance to Big G for that nudge.