The Tasting Menu

Course 3 White As Snow

Langoustine and King Scallop sashimi, confit of Halibut, Apple, Snow Melon, Shallot, and Cauliflower puree, served with a Beetroot-&-Yuzu coulis

It started as a faint grey line in the white expanse, growing as The Singing Mermaid chugged closer.

Shapes loomed in the fog, like shadows on an X-ray: rocks, pilings, then a jetty — which looked far too fancy for a crappy old fishing boat. Garlands looped over its ornate railings; olde-worlde carriage lamps glittered away in the gloom. Two blurred figures lurked beneath one of them. Waiting...

They stepped forward as the boat’s engine died and The Singing Mermaid drifted up against the jetty.

A woman, handsome in a black suit and red cloak, held up a hand. Her hood was thrown back, showing off long, curly auburn hair that glistened in the mist. Beside her, a younger man held a tray with drinks. He was capable-looking, with a wide jaw and a wider smile. Dimpled cheeks. In shirtsleeves, with black trousers and a tie-and-waistcoat combo that perfectly matched the red of the woman’s cloak.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a howl mourned through the air, followed a moment later by a second, then a third... They echoed away into silence as the captain tied up and clattered the gangplank down again.

The woman stepped forward, arms wide. “Welcome, welcome to Am Bòrd Mòr!” She helped Olivia totter onto the jetty. “How lovely to see you again, Miss Selkirk-Prentice.”

The... waiter? bellboy?... proffered his tray. “Sloe Royale, Miss?”

“Ooh, lovely. Thank you.”

The Concierge gave a small bow as Muriel strode down the gangplank. “Miss Selkirk-Prentice.”

“Elizabeth.” Muriel hooked a thumb at the big case. “As agreed. Going to be absolutely delicious.” She stuck a hand out to the Bellboy. “Talisker, neat?”

“Of course, Miss.” Passing her a glass.

Another bow. “And you must be our new guests!”

“Oh, aye.” Victor sauntered onto the jetty, shoulders rolling, every inch the gangster wideboy.

Michael pulled a face at Alex and followed.

She sighed and grabbed a couple of wheelie cases.

A sneer from Victor. “Leave it, you idiot. They’ve got people for that.” He shook the Concierge’s hand. “Victor McAllister. William MacDougal recommended this place very highly.”

“I’m so pleased.”

He turned and pointed at the pair of them: “My friend, Michael Harris, and that’s Ex-Detective-Inspector Alex Raith. This is her retirement bash.”

“Welcome: lady, gentlemen. Champagne?”

The Bellboy nodded at the remaining glasses. “Bollinger, La Grande Année, 2014.”

That was more like it.

Michael plucked one from the tray and sipped the sparkling nectar.

Soon as they all had a drink, the Concierge lowered her head. “I am sorry we couldn’t send the launch to get you, it’s stuck off St Kilda in heavy seas. I hope your crossing wasn’t too rough?”

Victor savoured a mouthful of champagne. “Bit fishing-boaty, but we’ll recover. It’s...” Another howl keened through the fog. “Is that...?”

“There’s a rewilding project on one of the other islands, but don’t worry — they’re further away than they sound.” A smile. “Besides, not even wolves get in here without a reservation. Speaking of which: Mr MacDougal called ahead and asked us to set aside the Cairngorm Suite for you.” She lowered her voice. “It’s one of our finest rooms.” Then swept an arm towards the jetty’s landward end. “Shall we?”

They followed her, up onto a flagstone path that ended at a gravel track, where a horse-drawn carriage lurked in the mist. A proper, old-fashioned, off-to-see-Dracula one, with a pair of big black Friesians to pull it and a coachman dressed in funereal gloom with a stovepipe hat to match.

He raised it as everyone bar the Concierge and the Bellboy climbed on board — into a cocoon of red leather upholstery. Very swanky.

The Concierge closed the carriage door. “Do enjoy the trip.” Then stepped back as the horses set off at a casual walk. Waving at them, till the mist swallowed her whole.

Victor stretched out in his seat, grinning as he raised his glass. “Could get used to this.”

The carriage trundled along, through the serried ranks of dark pines. Past what might once have been fields, before the reeds and gorse took over. Then the hollow corpse of an ancient stone bothy, slumped at the side of the track. All wreathed in fog so thick it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty feet.

It thinned out as the road climbed, past jutting boulders and crumbling drystane dykes, jagged gorse and razor-wire brambles, then out onto a bleak moor of twisted heather and pallid grass that stretched away to the base of a dark-blue mountain.

Horse hooves clip-clopping over a wee stone bridge, with a little burn gurgling beneath it.

A crooked ring of standing stones drifted by the carriage windows, before mist swallowed the world again.

Michael let his head fall back against the red leather upholstery. To be honest, trundling through fog at three miles per hour got boring sooner than you’d think.

Olivia was slumped against her sister’s arm, mouth open, fast asleep. Muriel, on the other hand, stared out at the never-ending wall of grey, the fingers of her real hand twitching and writhing like a spider. Alex eyed everyone like a potential shoplifter. Victor drifted in and out, but at least he hadn’t started snoring yet.

And Michael...

Yeah.

He pulled out his phone and had another go.

So much for 5G.

Wiggling the thing about didn’t help, either.

“Good, isn’t it?” Muriel tapped him on the knee with her plastic hand. “No internet, no ‘selfies’. Nothing but good food and great wines. Like the outside world doesn’t exist.”

Going by the view, it probably didn’t.

And then a golden glow shimmered through the fog, getting brighter as the carriage approached, until it turned into strings of lights, looped about an old-fashioned Scottish building — painted white as snow, with a black slate roof. Faint shapes to either side meant it wasn’t alone out here.

By the time the carriage came to a halt at the building’s front door, the Bellboy was already standing there, holding another tray of drinks, beneath the sign: “AM BÒRD MÒR ~ EAT, DRINK, REST, & BE MERRY, FOR YOU ARE AMONG FRIENDS.”

The Concierge appeared, as if by magic. “Ladies, gentlemen: your rooms are ready. Cocktails will be taken in the Cuillin Suite from seven, with dinner commencing at half past. Till then, please enjoy a welcoming dram.” She gestured at the Bellboy’s tray.

Muriel bounded from the carriage, helping herself to another large whisky as her sister yawned and stretched.

Michael climbed out into the damp air. “Is there Wi-Fi? My agent’s in Frankfurt and she’ll probably need to get in touch.”

“Mr Harris. If you, Mr McAllister, and Ms Raith would like to join me at Reception, we’ll get you checked in.” The Concierge turned and headed inside.

“Time, is it?” Victor emerged, blinking, then had a wee sniff at the tray of drinks. “Ooh... Don’t mind if I do.”

And if Victor was having one; might as well.

Michael took a whisky; Alex, an orange juice, sipping it as she followed the Concierge inside. What happened to being a bit more drunken-weaselly? And she was missing out as well, because his dram was bloody lovely.

He and Victor ambled after her, into a cosy room with white walls, a polished mahogany desk, and a Highland cow’s head mounted on the wall. A door marked “MANAGER” sat off to one side, next to a set of ten pigeonholes — each named after a different Scottish mountain.

The Concierge stepped behind the desk. “Now, first may I have your identification?”

“Eh?” Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You want ID?”

“We had a most unpleasant incident eighteen years ago, when a journalist posed as a peer of the realm and attempted to ‘dig up a scoop’.” The Concierge gestured towards the pigeonholes. “Our esteemed patrons, like yourself, don’t just expect world-class dining and excellent accommodation, Ms Raith. Discretion is of the utmost importance. Which is why we also require all guests to surrender any electronic devices for the duration of their stay.”

She held out a large wooden bowl and smiled at them.

Michael pulled out his iPhone and bit his lip. “But my agent—”

“We are uniquely blessed in our position here, Mr Harris. The nearest phone tower is on the mainland, on the other side of the mountains, granting us peace and calm and no mobile signal whatsoever.”

Bugger.

He fired up his phone’s screen, but she was right: not even the teeny-weeniest of bars.

She waggled the bowl.

Urgh...

Michael pulled the driving licence and library card from his wallet and dropped them in. Then did the same with his phone.

Alex went next: one old Nokia and an expired warrant card. And finally, Victor: two flash new smartphones and a passport.

“Perfect, thank you.” The Concierge took the bowl and disappeared into the Manager’s office, reappearing a minute later with a trio of iPads. Handing them out. “Now, as first-time guests, we’ll need you to fill out these questionnaires and sign the waiver-slash-indemnity at the end.”

“Hold on...” Alex scrolled and scrolled. Frowning. “Why do you need to know my medical history, or if I’m on any medication? Bit intrusive for a restaurant.”

“An excellent question, Ms Raith. We ask, because certain ingredients can react badly with some medications. Do you know that liquorice and ginseng are contraindicated for people on blood pressure tablets? St John’s Wort interferes with tyrosine kinase inhibitors, antivirals, and antidepressants. Fenugreek can cause problems if you’re diabetic. Turmeric with anticoagulants. And some medications, when combined with alcohol, can lead to respiratory failure...” A shake of the head. “We would be most distressed if one of our valued guests didn’t wake up in the morning.”

And with that, they all filled in their questionnaires. Signed with a finger. And handed the iPads back.

“Thank you kindly.” The Concierge dinged a little bell. Smiled. “Cameron will show you to your rooms.”