By the book isn't enough

A few weeks ago, I mentioned a comment from Nigel Slater about the British being a nation of recipe book cooks, as opposed to passionate cooks.

Now of course, there’s nothing wrong with recipes (and recipe books!), but the latest episode of macaron madness in this household illustrated just why recipes are not the be all and end all of cooking.

I think that I’m a little on the geeky side when it comes to cooking – some might say that that would be an apt description of other parts of my life too – but I have the sort of a mind that is fascinated to discover some really rather ‘scientific’ things about food.

For instance, I’m currently reading A Taste of My Life by Raymond Blanc, a book that deftly mixes autobiography with food science, food philosophy and recipes.

Last night, I was amazed to read Blanc’s comments on making a classic French onion soup. He regards white onions as the best for the job, having done extensive tests. Not only are they sweeter sweeter, but white onions also contain less sulpher than other onions, and it’s the sulpher that makes you cry.

That’s seriously good information to have – for more than one reason.

And after reading something else in the same book, I was very near to trying an experiment today: taking two pans with the same amount of water in and gently heating them both. One would contain a torn bay leaf, the other an un-torn one.

Blanc’s idea is that it answers the question of whether or not to tear/cut the leaf: taste after five minutes and you’ll apparently see a difference. Taste again after another five minutes and the difference will have become more pronounced. The water containing the torn one in will taste increasingly bitter and unpleasant.

Even if I never actually get around to doing the experiment myself, it gives an understanding of why you don't tear the leaf.

Likewise with onions: Blanc suggests taking the time to smell and taste different onions; to look at the way they’re structured when you cut them differently.

In other words, to learn about what you cook and not just how to execute what a recipe tells you.

In years long gone by, I did a lot of acting. On one occasion, a particularly poor director wanted me to move across the stage at a certain point, simply for the look of it. I could never remember the move. A fellow actor (who had had professional theatre experience) suggested a motive for the move – something as simple as my having spotted an envelope on the mantelpiece and crossing the 'room' to see what it was. Once this bit of business gave the move some reason, some logic, I never forgot it again.

Now I’m beginning to see something similar happening in the kitchen. I want to know how and why something happens so that I can understand not just why things work, but when they don’t, why they don’t.

Following a particular macaron recipe this morning, I started preparing the “ganache” for the filling. I heated pineapple juice and a little lime juice (both carefully measured), then let it stand, infusing with some black pepper.

After that had cooled, the recipe has you beat together caster sugar and the egg yolks that you have left from the macaron mix itself, then add cornflour and cooking “over a low heat” for the listed time of five to seven minutes. Then it was decanted into a jug to cool. When that had cooled, it was popped into the fridge.

Some time later, it was clear that it wasn’t setting or even thickening. A slight ‘eureka’ moment occurred as I realised that I wasn’t supposed to be making a ganache – I was supposed to be making something like a crème patisserie.

Look at the ingredients: egg yolks and cornflour and liquid – this is a custard. And a custard, dammit, needs to be cooked over more than “a low heat” to bring it to a thickening point.

Once that realisation had occurred, then it also became clear what that irritatingly unquantified and unquantifiable “low heat” really means.

The use of the word ‘ganache’ in the recipe is utterly misleading and unhelpful. Indeed, according to Larousse Gastonomique – which is as good a bible as I can think of to refer to – a ganache is " a flavoured cream made with chocolate and fresh cream, sometimes with butter added". In other words, exactly what I understood it to be.

It was only because I’ve cooked a few custards that it finally dawned. And the use of “a low heat” is itself deceptive, since it’s really quite unscientific. I’d cooked it “over a low heat” for the specified time – but it wasn’t enough.

As it also happens, remembering Blanc’s constant call, I had tasted it – but then my distrust of my own instincts and knowledge had seen me continue to take the recipe at its word. Only once I'd realised what was (or wasn't) happening, did it explain to me why it was a tad grainy: the sugar had not melted properly.

Language is important – and technical language is very important.

The mixture went back into a clean pan and back on a hob.

Then, unfortunately, I forgot what I know – and left it while other tasks absorbed me. By the time this dawned, there was a burnt crust forming on the bottom – not much, but enough to wreck the filling altogether.

So it was back to square one – and just as I’d come so much closer to really getting the macaron cases so much closer to what I’ve bought in the shops. Argh!

Now in all fairness, in the case of this particular book, it might be a problem with the translation – French to an English for all English-language market (thus 'superfine sugar' for caster sugar, and 'confectioner's sugar' for icing sugar).

Or is it just me not reading recipes properly, with any depth of understanding – and simply bemoaning everything being written as though I really require a volume entitled Cooking for Dummies?

Still, once I understood what was required, something could be done.

Fruit juice heated and infused with pepper (crushed this time too, since it gives off more aroma and scent that way). More egg yolks and sugar beaten together, before cornflour and the juice are added. Then the lot was decanted into a pan and heated: slowly, to be sure, but enough to melt the sugar properly and to thicken it.

It’s now sitting in the fridge, slowly chilling and getting thicker and thicker. It might actually reach a point where it’s possible to sandwich it between the shell halves that are a considerable improvement on last time (they're incredibly fragile, but light as air and with the proper 'crust').

But whether or not it’s me or the book or a combination thereof, perhaps what Slater was meaning was that when we’re concentrating on a specific recipe, we forget to think for ourselves and expect the recipe to do all the work.

And yes – when you do that, there’s also little space for ‘passion’ in your kitchen.

Boy. I have some catching up to do. Blanc has no formal training – but he clearly learnt so much from his mother, who had learnt so much from her mother before her. And to read of Maman Blanc is to feel such admiration – and yes, envy.

Levels of understanding that I can but aspire to. What I'm doing now – what I'm thinking now – is part of that attempt to catch up.

Blanc's descriptions of the culinary desert that he came face to face with when he came to the UK at 22 to be a waiter are staggering. On many fronts, we have got better.

But in a perhaps perverse way, it is also heartening to know that that is my context: that my ignorance and the position I start from is far from unique.

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!

Onto a winner

Right. So here we are, properly back in the merry old land of Hackney and with a day to myself – so just what foodiness can be managed?

Broadway Market beckoned: I miss shopping there when I'm away for a weekend (well, unless I'm food shopping in France, of course), but I had the germs of a few ideas swimming around in my head and, even without taxing the culinary imagination at all, we needed fodder for this evening.

I'd got hold of some rhubarb yesterday and was wondering whether to try some mackerel with it – a nice combination. But I had other ideas too, largely influenced by the presence in the fridge of a large piece of black pudding.

Once in the fish shop, I faced choices. After mulling, I got half a dozen scallops and a mackerel, which I had filleted.

Back at home, I discovered that I'd missed a delivery. I wasn't expecting anything, so this was a bit of a mystery. Next door had taken the parcel in, so I popped around and collected it. It was a large, heavy rectangular box, covered in grey plastic. The mystery deepened.

Snipping the plastic open revealed a bright orange box – containing a Le Creuset roasting dish and rack. Memory surged back – this was the result of a prize draw that I come across on a bag of potatoes from Waitrose last year. I'd entered my contact details and a number that came on the bag, and submitted it. As simple as that. Since entries were not limited, I'd done it twice more when I'd had more bags of potatoes with the same promotion attached.

I am incredibly chuffed. A first-class bit of kitchen kit for free – and a thing of beauty too.

Although I'd forgotten about them since, the entries had been made with a reasonable confidence. Many years ago – well, 1988, to be precise – my parents and I had stopped off at a motorway service station for a break during a journey. The cafe was promoting a 'Best of British' prize draw – a draw that was taking place all around the country.

Since there was no limit on how many cards you could fill in, I did six and my mother did three. My father scoffed, said it was a waste of time and refused to play along.

Nicely and proportionately, my mother's three entries bagged her a set of Kenwood kitchen implements. My six produced a top-notch CD player and a canteen of cutlery. My father's zero entries produced, needless to say, nothing.

It was pretty clear that, unless we had been staggeringly lucky, few people had entered – presumably entertaining the same thoughts as my father.

Many people, buying those Waitrose potatoes, won't even have noticed the promotion. Others will, and will have thought it a waste of time. Others will have forgotten to do anything about it. And so forth.

So the moral of the story is never think it's a waste of time to enter free prize draws.

And now I have to think what to roast in it first.

But back to today.

For lunch, I grilled the mackerel fillets and served them with some borlotti beans, sliced courgette and red chili that I'd cooked in a little oil. Really easy and really tasty – and very healthy.

Tonight was hardly much more complex. I cooked and mashed some potatoes in late afternoon, adding butter and cream before letting it cool. Thinly sliced savoy cabbage was cooked briefly too, then drained and mixed into the potato. Here's the basis of that classic Irish dish, colcannon.

All you need to do after that is finely chop some onion or shallot and cook gently in butter (or lard or even goose fat), before adding the potato and cabbage, mixing it all together to warming thoroughly. Easy.

Then take some slices of black pudding and warm through. Sear the scallops for around two minutes a side maximum

There was a little pot of French onion confit that's been waiting to be opened for some months. It was the perfect accompaniment. And I went a bit posy and garnished with redcurrants because I'd spotted them at a local Turkish grocer – and because The Other Half likes them.

For dessert, it was a case of the Sarah Raven rhubarb syllabub again, although with slight tweaks: the rhubarb mix was infused with ginger instead of star anise and cardamom, while the sugar and cream were whisked up with a tiny tot of whisky.

That was it. Really not difficult.

It's funny to think what I now find as 'easy' on the food front. Certainly, what I've done today doesn't require any great skills. The recipe I took a cue from for the black pudding and scallops was a Waitrose one – and suggested using pre-made colcannon for the dish. So, a 450g packet of pre-made colcannon, costing £1.99.

Now the ingredients don't include anything that shouldn't be there – potato (67%), savoy cabbage (21%), onion, unsalted butter, white pepper – but it's hardly a rocket science dish to make and, when you do, it costs less. 225g would be a small portion. My version wasn't huge, but it was bigger – it included cream and it was still cheaper. The big con again, I'm afraid.

Elsewhere on the food front, I finally got around to calling the lady at Piccolino for a chat. She was actually off work, so will call me back on Monday when she has my comments in front of her. Wow. They're taking this seriously.

And then it was a case of organising a restaurant for Monday evening for The Other Half's birthday. In a display of no originality whatsoever, I've booked Bistrot Bruno Loubet again. There's a danger of going back to somewhere really quickly after you've been massively impressed – but somehow I just cannot see that happening in this instance.

So in other words, it was a bit of a win, win day on the old food front.

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.

A right old kitchen binge

As this week draws to its close, I’ll be in the midst of four days (and nights) in Glasgow for work. Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Four days and four nights of no cooking. That’s the sort of very simple stat that makes me realise just how much I enjoy my weekends in the kitchen these days.

And so it was with that at least partly in mind that I planned the weekend just gone to be a downright kitchen binge.

The first thing on the agenda was a spot of preserving. Specifically, since it’s January and the season of Seville oranges, a spot of marmalade making.

My mother used to make marmalade: when very young, I considered it quite clever to alliterate madly and describe it as ‘mummy-made marmalade’, which also flowed rather nicely. Well, as I said – I was very young.

But with it being the time of year for Seville oranges, my mind had been turning that way for some time.

It seems to be some sort of modern seasonal disorder. No, not making marmalade.

But for the last two Januaries at least, someone has been predicting the impending death of marmalade. Put it another way: some supermarket has been predicting the demise of that lovely stuff.

Through various searches, I found Dan Lepard’s 2010 Guardian article on the subject, in which he rather adroitly responds to this annual hysteria – and then offers up a recipe for Seville oranges.

But then my eye was caught by his footnote about other flavours. I have long liked lemon marmalade – even though, as far as I can recall, my sole experience of it has been the mass-produced stuff. My mind started moving in that direction.

So, on Saturday morning, off I went to Broadway Market – a visit that included a lovely chat with Andy at the game stall about Scottish food in general and Glasgow restaurants specifically; a passionate exchange with Richard at Wild Dartmoor Beef about proposed mass factory dairy farms; a conversation with Vicki about the prospect of David Beckham actually playing for Tottenham, and a gab with Max at La Bouche about … well, about all sorts of things.

At the organic stall, the lemons had some pale green splotches, so I asked the man whose stall it is (I’m afraid I don’t know his name, even though we’ve chatted many times and he's been enormously helpful), whether they’d be good for marmalade.

With a stony face, he informed me that they would be wonderful for lemon curd but that if I wanted to make marmalade, then the Seville oranges were there (pointing). Suitably chastised, I bought 540g of the oranges and a large lemon, and made my way home.

It takes little time to peel all the fruit using one of those y-shaped potato peelers. Then the fruit is roughly chopped and bunged in a large pot with a litre of water. Simmer gently for two hours, then pop a colander on top of a bowl, line with muslin and tip all your fruit and liquid into it.

The recipe says to leave for an hour – and not to squeeze. I didn’t squeeze, but I did leave it overnight. Tasting the liquid the following morning – I don’t think I’d realised just how bitter Seville oranges are.

First thing on Sunday (by “first thing”, I do mean when I eventually got up and after I’d had coffee – this was Sunday, after all) I measured the liquid and topped it up to 750ml. I weighed out 800g ordinary granulated sugar, popped this and the liquid into a big pan and brought to the boil.

As per the instructions, I watched for a temperature of 104˚ – oh, the joys of finally having a jam thermometer! – and gave it five minutes. Then, while I was waiting to see if a splodge set on a chilled saucer, it got another five minutes and, using the same method, another five as I tested a second dollop.

It was beginning to wrinkle, so the hob was switched off. You leave the pan for 20 minutes and then decant into sterilised jars. This really isn’t difficult stuff.

By the evening, it had cooled completely and set softly. I spread a bit of bread with some butter and tried a bit. Absolutely scrummy.

But man cannot lived by marmalade-making alone. So on Saturday afternoon, continuing my heavy-duty kitchen weekend theme, I made petits pots de crème. One of that vast range of French set custards, I flavoured this with chocolate.

For our main course in the evening, I’d bought some cod and grilled that: a good 10cm from a hot element and brushed with butter (that had been melted in one of those miniature copper pans – so there, Other Half: they have a use) and given about 10 minutes.

By that time, I’d taken three anchovies from a pack, dried and then blitzed them in my little Cuisinart, then added softened butter, mixed it all together and rolled it in foil to go back in the fridge to chill.

Grilled cod with anchovy butter: sounds simple, doesn’t it? Yet the idea was from The Complete Escoffier, which makes it sounds considerably posier! Sticking with Escoffier, I served it with plain boiled potatoes, and then added some sautéed/steamed leeks on the side.

After I’d set the marmalade cooking on Sunday, it was back to desserts. This time, to celebrate the year's first forced rhubarb from Yorkshire’s ‘Rhubarb Triangle’, three sticks were cut into thumb-length pieces and gently cooked in orange juice, with star anise and cardamom pods until soft but still holding together.

These were popped into glasses and the remaining liquid boiled to a syrup, which was poured over. Leave to chill.

Later, some double cream was whipped with caster sugar and a glug of the remaining Banyuls until stiff, then popped on top of the rhubarb mix and put back into the fridge. This is a Sarah Raven recipe from her Garden Cookbook (apart from the Banyuls, fairly obviously), and I’m rather fond of it.

Our main course was shoulder of lamb, roasted with olive oil, garlic and lashings of thyme. When the meat is resting, decant a drained and dried tin of new potatoes (it’s a cheat, I admit – when the real new potatoes are out, I’d use them, par-boiling first), a tin of cannellini beans and four halved artichoke hearts into the oil, lamb fat, garlic and thyme. Pop back into the oven, turn the temperature up a tad and then leave until the meat is rested and carved.

Phew! But before that, there’d been lunch.

Ever since I’d got that batch of Michel Roux books over the festive season, I’d been building myself up to trying one of his pastry dishes. More to the point – trying some of his pastry.

Roux gives details for a flan pastry – but also for a pâte brisée, which he describes as more delicate and slightly harder to use than the other form of shortcrust. But I wanted to give this a go, since it sounded wonderful and was a new challenge: something slightly beyond what I’d done before in the pastry realm.

It was easy enough to mix with the Kenwood (which really is already coming into its own – thanks, Other Half). Plain flour, diced and lightly softened butter, an egg, a little fine salt and a pinch of sugar are creamed, before a very little milk is added to bring it together.

Once that's happened, you use your palms to push it forward just four or five times to smooth it. Then either use – or wrap in cling film and pop in the fridge or freezer. It'll keep for a week in the former and three months in the latter.

I rolled it carefully, nice and thin, and lined my tart dish, carefully pushing the pastry into each indentation on the side. That was then lined with scrunched parchment paper and filled with baking beans, before chilling in the freezer while the oven heated.

Blind baking done, the beads and paper are removed and it’s returned to the oven for a few minutes more for the base to dry out and cook.

At this point, I realised that it had shrunk a little and I had to patch at one point where I had clumsily managed to put my finger through into the space behind caused by the shrinkage. This needs to be remembered for future attempts. I trimmed the excess pastry from the rim of the dish at this point.

For the filling, I thinly sliced a large onion – the mandolin got another workout – and cut up some streaky bacon. These were cooked together and then spread carefully in the pastry case. A couple of eggs and some double cream were mixed up with seasoning and poured over the bacon and onion mix.

It had around 25 minutes in the oven. Tasty in general, the pastry was a dream of buttery crumbliness. Wikipedia may claim that pâte brisée is ‘just’ shortcrust pastry by another name, but on the basis of this, that’s far short of the point.

One thing that the weekend also illustrated was that it’s no wonder that I struggle with my oven at times. I’ve also got an oven thermometer after such a thing was recommended in the Roux brothers’ French Country Cooking.

It made its debut for the lamb – and I discovered that the temperature barely came actually close to what I had set it for.

I’ll keep testing – if only to make sure that I was not misreading something – but it does explain a great deal.

But that was the one ‘downside’ on a weekend that, if it didn’t quite leave me ready for my Glasgow adventure, did leave me with a very great deal of satisfaction and achievement.