All hail the mighty haggis

Burns Night (2011)

It was on the Isle of Skye, in something or other BDC (before digital cameras) that I first tasted haggis.

On one our relatively rare holidays – and helped enormously by generous friends that we were with – we spent a week on the island, based in Uig.

The name derives from the Norse Vik, meaning bay. And with a population of 200 it could make Tebay – population 728 and the first place I lived – seem like a veritable metropolis.

Many of the few locals spoke Scots Gaelic and would pointedly do so in front of we Sassanachs on occasion.

The trip was memorable for a number of reasons.

There was a sighting of the Northern Lights – very lucky for October.

There was the rather puritan B&B in which we stayed, where disapproval of the unmarried state of The Other Half and I was clear, together with a complete inability to take cheques.

Then there was my first ever horse ride – which culminated in being thrown after the horse behind mine bit the bum of the mount I was just starting to get used to, and left me with massive bruising all down one thigh and leg: and that after I’d landed well, according to the woman in charge.

Then there were all the walks – the Quiraing is an amazing sight to behold, like stumbling into a fantasy world, but I do not do unprotected heights very well at all, and pea gravel is a nightmare to try to scramble up.

And finally there was the food.

Now this was in the days before I ‘discovered’ food, but two things still stand out.

First, the vast, magnificent Staffin Bay prawns that I tasted after surviving the Quiraing, and second, the haggis.

For most of the week, we ate in the pub/caff next to the ferry terminal. And after a debut taste of haggis on our first evening there, it became regular fodder.

The place was presided over by a delightful woman who, rumour had it, doubled as the local tart, the place was welcoming and warm. And it also boasted a pool table, which was about the sum of Uig's night life.

So ever since – even if only when Burns Night hoves into view – we have quaffed haggis.

With Andy’s game stall now sadly long gone from Broadway Market, I ordered one from Waitrose to make sure.

It was, however, a Macsween – very traditional and with nary an additive to be found.

Larousse Gastronomique, that bible of matters culinary, says: “Although its description is not immediately appealing, haggis has an excellent nutty texture and delicious savoury flavour”.

Although it’s synonymous with Scotland, there’s no historical evidence to make it certain where it originated.

The first known written recipe for anything like it – ‘hagese’ – made with offal and herbs, is in the verse cookbook Liber Cure Cocorum dating from around 1430 in Lancashire.

Try reading the following in your best Chaucerian:

For hagese’.

_e hert of schepe, _e nere _ou take,

_o bowel noght _ou shalle forsake,

On _e turbilen made, and boyled wele,

Hacke alle togeder with gode persole,

And there’s another printed recipe from in 1615’s The English Huswife by Gervase Markham.

Haggis is a doddle to cook. Either simmer in water for an hour or so, or remove the outer casing, wrap tightly in foil and roast in a dish with 2cm of water in the bottom and cook for an hour at 160˚C (fan).

I tend to go for the former, but decided that, since a change is as good as a rest, I do it the other way this evening.

Then there’s the question of the accompaniment. ‘Tatties and neeps’ is, of course, the properly traditional one, which is only a tad confused by English regional differences in whether a ‘neep’ is a swede or a turnip.

The former again, for me.

So some plain boiled spuds on the side, with diced swede, cooked and then crushed roughly, and with butter and plenty of freshly-ground black pepper added.

All of which leaves the small matter of the sauce.

Now the really traditional way to do it involves whisky. A sauce can be made with this and mustard, but since neither of us is a particularly big fan and haggis can be a bit dry, I decided to look for something else this year.

Nick Nairn – a Michelin-starred chef and a Scot himself – has recipes for using Scotch, but suggests reducing half a pint of beef stock and some red wine, before whisking in a knob of butter and seasoning for an alternative to the whisky route.

So that was what I decided to do this time around.

The complication was that I had no beef stock in – and I’m increasingly reluctant to use any form of bought stock, whether cubes of powder or liquid: they’re all far too strong a taste.

So instead, I started with sweating onion, carrot and celery in butter, before adding water and wine, plus bay leaves and black peppercorns.

After you’ve reduced that, you can strain and then add the butter to give a little gloss and thicken slightly.

We don’t do any ceremony with our haggis, but it’s a most enjoyable meal and, in this case, the sauce worked excellently in providing moisture without the whisky.

Unbeatable fodder for a cold, dark January night.

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!

Raise a glass to the haggis

I might be back in the Metropolis, but that's no excuse to let go of all things Scottish just yet.

It's just gone six and I'm back in my own kitchen and there's a haggis simmering gently on the stove.

Later, I'll chop and then boil both some potatoes and swede, which will then be mashed and buttered, with the latter getting plenty of ground black pepper too for good measure.

I just might add a touch of whisky to the haggis itself once I've cut into it.

After all, this is Burns Night.

On Monday, with time to spare after my work was done, I caught a bus to Crow Road and walked up until I found 334 – Christie butchers, an address given to me by the concierge at the hotel. I don't know, to be frank, whether he often gets asked where a guest can get hold of good haggis and black pudding, but he came up trumps.

It's a proper, old-fashioned butcher, with an amazing range of meat – much of which comes from their own Duntiglennan farm. That was exactly what I'd been hoping to find.

I bought my haggis (look at the picture to see just how un-factory produced it is), together with a third of a huge black pudding they made themselves too. Meat products of something a little under a kilo in weight came to a grand total of £5.13.

As we finished the transaction, the butcher nipped into the back and brought out a freshly cooked tomato sausage, cut into three, for the other two customers in the shop, and myself, to try. If I hadn't been having to store my purchases overnight in a minibar, I'd have bought some – it was delicious and moist.

It had been a funny old start to the day that, for various reasons, had left me feeling frustrated and a tad grouchy. My successful trek for haggis brightened me up no end.

Then there was the question of lunch. A few yards further back along Crow Road I spotted an old-fashioned bakers called Bradford's – one of a small chain that was established in 1923. In the window, alongside cakes and buns, were Aberdeen Angus and Scotch steak pies.

Remembering a conversation from Sunday's lunch, when one of my friends had assured me that any pub in the area does steak pies – and does them well – I mused over whether there was such a pub nearby. And then it struck me that the baker itself might sell me one, warmed up.

Inside, it turned out (rather obviously, on thinking about it) that they had a cabinet with cooked ones ready and waiting.

The woman asked me whether I wanted an Aberdeen Angus one. I asked what she recommended. She said that, personally, she preferred the other (slightly) cheaper one, as she found it more moist. I had one of those and stood outside at the bus stop, in the chilly wind, munching a pie of minced steak, oozing tasty fat and surrounded by a peppery, thin, crispy pastry. It was a moment of perfection – and my grin just got wider.

On the bus back into the city centre, two very helpful ladies guided me as to when to get off. They happened to be sitting on the same seat but had never met. Within moments of my asking if they could kindly let me know when we reached Charing Cross, where the driver had suggested when I was paying my fare, they were exchanging memories and informing me in no uncertain terms that there was nothing to see there ("40 years ago there was plenty there, my husband tells me – I wasn't brought up round here so I don't know – but not since a motorway was built through it") and that they'd tell me when was best.

Bearing in mind the benefits of local knowledge, I did as I was told. When I got off at the appointed stop, I began an amble down a slight hill into the main shopping area.

Pausing to light up, I noticed a rather different building. It seemed to be a jeweler's shop. But on closer inspection, it became clear that inside and upstairs was the Willow Tea Room, designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I glanced at the menu and dived in.

Sometimes it really does pay to listen.

On the first and second floors are two tea rooms. I sat in the lower one – and ordered a pot or tea ordinaire and a scone, with butter, strawberry jam and cream.

It is a very, very long time since I've been in a traditional tea room – a vague memory drifts past of going to an Olde Worlde tea room somewhere in either Cornwall or Devon with my parents on a family holiday: possibly the latter for a Devon cream tea. The waitresses were all elderly and with permed hair to go with their starched aprons and little caps.

But this was extra special, with Mackintosh-style furniture and decoration everywhere. Although it seemed a tad strange to be there after first really encountering the Mackintosh trail in Port Vendres in the south of France, of all places.

The scone was warm and light and beautifully crumbly. The portions of butter and jam and cream were generous. The tea was exactly what I needed.

There was no music. It was delightfully quiet, apart from the noises in the tiny kitchen and the gentle buzz of conversation from the few other customers who were in at that time of the afternoon. There was a hint of Paisley and brogues and blue rinses.

The butter melted on the scone and I piled jam and cream on top in gluttonous abandon. The grin was getting wider still. Food – it really is therapy.

And now the haggis is nearly ready. I know there's a great debate about what a 'neep' is – or more to the point, what some people call a turnip, others call a swede. It's a difference between Scotland and England – but also between parts of England.

So, here's a glass to the haggis – and it seems entirely apt to conclude with a few lines from Rabbie Burns himself.

"For a' that an' a' that

It's coming yet for a' that

That man to man, the world o'er

Shall brithers be for a' that"

From Is There Honest Poverty by Robert Burns

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.