The Tasting Menu

Course 5 I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff...

Pork Belly, Cheek, and Shoulder with Celeriac mirepoix, Apple emulsion, Vichy Carrot puree, and Fennel Pollen

You’d think a hotel dining room would be one big space full of tables and chairs, but at Am Bòrd Mòr they’d gone for something a bit... different.

The space was divided up into ten alcove booths, each one like a little room in its own right. Stained-glass panels topped dark wooden panelling that looked as if it could be shifted about to accommodate different-sized parties. Every partition tall enough that, even standing up, it was impossible to see who occupied the other tables. They even had their own full-sized doors, making everything intimate and private.

An excited background hum of conversation filled the room, heady with anticipation.

In Booth Number Six, a heavy white linen cloth was draped across a table set for three, with a dazzling array of sparkling glasses and glittering cutlery, while a nice bottle of something fizzy clinked in a free-standing ice bucket.

Michael skimmed the menu again. “This all looks incredible. Ever eaten ‘black ants’ before?”

Victor took a sip of champagne, so chuffed he was almost purring. “You remember when we did the Fat Duck for your fiftieth?”

A groan from Alex. “My overdraft loved that. But it was worth every penny.” She raised her glass. “A toast: to no more rubbery canteen bacon butties. No more manky Police Scotland coffee. And no more banging-up nasty wee scroats!”

Michael hoisted his champagne. “To a better class of criminal.”

“Aye.” Victor clinked his glass off theirs. “To friends.”

But before they could drink, the polite dingle-ding-ding-ding of a little brass bell silenced the room. Followed by the Concierge’s voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you all to give a hearty Am Bòrd Mòr welcome to our newest guests, at Table Six.”

Victor preened. “That’s us.”

A round of applause clattered around the room.

“And I’m delighted to announce a change to tomorrow night’s menu, in honour of our esteemed new guests. Chef will be preparing...” dramatic pause, “...a banquet!”

This time, the applause thundered.

Someone actually cheered.

At Table Six, Michael, Alex, and Victor beamed.

“Oh aye.” A wink from the old ex-con. “Told you this place was special.”

The booth door opened, and in slipped a slightly androgenous mid-twenties bloke, wearing the hotel’s black-white-and-red livery, carrying a bottle of sparkling water. Sharp, bone-china features. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.

A second waiter followed with a tray. She was a slightly more feminine version of him, with the same outfit, cheekbones, and long black ponytail. So either the pair were related, or something weird was going on. She placed a small black plate in front of each of them, featuring a quenelle of silk-smooth pâté on a little round biscuit, topped with red froth. Then stepped back as her brother filled everyone’s water glass with sparkling. She pulled an atomizer from her pocket and sprayed an elaborate figure-of-eight above the table, filling the air with the sharp outdoor scent of freshly cut pine.

After which, the pair of them swept from the booth, without saying a single word.

“OK...” Alex popped the amuse-bouche in her mouth, crunching on it with her eyes closed, nostrils twitching as she took in the scent. “Oh my God, that’s amazing!”

And so the meal began...

The bone-broth consommé was clear as a Highland stream, but rich and savoury and delicious. Which went very nicely with the Burgundy Côte de Nuits. Someone must’ve really liked it, because a round of applause came from one of the other partitioned-off tables.

Bit weird, but OK.

Alex dipped a nugget of sourdough into her broth. “... and there he is, stark-naked except for his socks, frothing at the mouth as he teeters on the edge of the bridge. And he takes this huge swig of brandy, and Biohazard’s sneaking up from the other side, and—”

“Hud on.” Victor waved his spoon. “Who’s ‘Biohazard’ again?”

A glare. “DS Marshall. How many times?” Alex chewed on her soggy nugget. “Anyway, he’s managed to dig up a tow rope from somewhere, and he’s swinging it round his head, because the idiot thinks he can lasso the Right Honourable Stephen Gordonson MP — like the fat bugger’s a hairy coo gone rogue at the mart.” More dipping. “Only what Biohazard doesn’t know, is our bare-arsed MP for Aberdeenshire North has slathered himself all over with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter...”

The sixth course was a pair of spherical meat lollypops in a wooden holder, with a wee pile of golden-fried liver, and what looked like a cockscomb of scarlet jelly, all dolled up with decorative herby bits and a dash of purple powder. Served in solemn silence by the chuckle-less brother-and-sister, with a glass of oaky Primitivo.

“Urgh...” Michael stared at his plate. “I wish I had my phone. This stuff is way too Instagrammable.”

Victor slurped at his wine. “What was I talking about?”

“You weren’t.” Alex leaned in to give her lollypops a good sniff. “Michael was telling his George R.R. Martin story. Again.”

“Was he the guy wrote that book about fly-fishing? You know, in the Yellow Pages advert?”

“That was J.R. Hartley, you daft old sod.” She took a wee bite of lolly and her eyes went wide. “Oooooooh... You’ve got to try these!”

Michael pouted at her. “You used to love my stories.”

“Yeah, the first dozen times.”

“OK: I got one, I got one.” Victor put his wine down and leaned in — all conspiratorial. “Once upon a time, I used to know this useless prick called French Bob, and one day he burns down some old gypsy woman’s caravan. Course he doesn’t know—”

“Her dog was inside, so she cursed him, and the MacDougal brothers chopped him up and turned him into dog food.” Alex rolled her eyes. “God, it’s like having dinner in an old-folks home...”

She was too busy polishing off her lollypop to notice Victor’s shoulders slump at that, his face sagging like a crestfallen basset hound as another round of applause rang out.

Oblivious, she stabbed her wobbly, scarlet cockscomb with a fork — sooking on the thing, before munching it down. “Have you tried the jelly? Try the jelly, it tastes of whisky!”

Brother Waiter filled Michael’s glass with a rich-orange Rioja Blanco to go with the pumpkin wedges, calf’s feet, and deep green sauce, as yet another round of applause burst out from a random corner of the dining room.

Alex turned in her seat, looking towards the sound. “What is that?”

Michael held up a hand, before Sister Waiter could disappear again. “Excuse me, but the clapping — is there something we’re missing?”

Her voice was a soft island lilt. “It’s a tradition at Am Bòrd Mòr, Mr Harris. The Misses Selkirk-Prentice have provided a key component of tomorrow night’s banquet, so the other tables are taking turns to send them drinks as a mark of thanks.”

Alex frowned. “What, the marmalade?”

“Aye, good idea.” Victor put on his best lord-of-the-manor voice: “We’ll have a bit of that. You know, if it’s tradition.” Snapping his fingers at Brother Waiter. “Please send the lovely ladies whatever it is they’re drinking. My treat.”

“Of course, Mr McAllister.”

Which seemed to please Victor no end.

But as he tucked into his calf’s foot, Alex glared at him, face all scrunched up — bitter as chicory. Not saying anything as Victor sooked the delicate-pink meat off a bone.

You’d think, after eleven delicious, jaw-dropping courses, a plate of cheese and biscuits would be a bit superfluous; but here they were, determined to cram down every last morsel. Especially as Brother Waiter had poured them all a generous glass of port, then left the decanter.

Good job there was only coffee and petit fours to go, though, otherwise Michael was in very real danger of doing a Mr Creosote all over the dining room.

He loosened his belt and sagged in his seat. Smiling like a stuffed and well-oiled simpleton. God, if only publishers’ dinners were like this...

Victor was rosy-cheeked and beaming, swaying slightly in his seat, candlelight shining off his big bald head.

Alex was none too steady on her bum either: one eye closed as she topped herself up with a third large port in a row. “No, no, hold on; another toast.” She raised her glass, only spilling a dribble. “To William ‘Bonecracker Bill’ MacDougal — Central Belt gangster; allegedly responsible for four murders, and those are just the ones we know about; who runs half the brothels, drug dens, and protection rackets in Glasgow; renowned criminal, misogynist, tosser, and massive wankstain on the arse of society — for sorting out this lovely meal for us this evening.”

Here we go again...

Michael frowned at her. “Come on, Alex, don’t spoil it.”

She honed her voice to a sharp cruel edge. “I’m not spoiling anything. I’m saying ‘thank you’ to the vicious wee shite for swinging it so we can be here tonight.”

Victor scowled. “Get off your high horse. You’re happy enough freeloading off me and Mikey, aren’t you?”

“I do not freeload!”

Michael grabbed the decanter. “Can the pair of you just let us enjoy one meal?”

“You freeload! You never put your hand in your pocket for anything, less it’s cheap. Show a bit of gratitude!”

“Oh, excuse me, Mister McAllister! I should be more like the auld wifies, right? Simpering away over a couple of free drinks, like you’re king of the fucking castle.” Alex gave him a mocking bow. “I’m so grateful that the pair of you froze me out of that BBC2 thing.”

This again.

Michael sighed. “We didn’t ‘freeze you out’. Police Scotland wouldn’t let you take part because you were a serving officer.”

“You didn’t have to do it without me!” She knocked back her port in one. “Bloody typical. The only one who hasn’t made a fortune out of crime is the poor bastard who actually had to fight it. The gangster and the crime writer lined their pockets like a pair of—”

“Oh aye?” Victor jabbed a cheese knife in her direction. “Well, maybe, if you didn’t have your head jammed up your—”

“I should’ve made superintendent by now! But every sodding time promotion came up there you were, hanging over me like a damp smell. Associating with a known criminal? I’m lucky I made it this far!” She hurled her napkin down, lurched upright, and stormed out of the booth.

It was only now the shouting had stopped that it became clear the rest of the dining room had fallen silent.

Urgh...

Michael sagged back in his seat and swore.

Victor stared at the door as it slowly swung shut, closing off their private booth again. His bottom lip trembled a little, matching the tremor in his left hand. A look of hurt and betrayal pulling his face down.

Outside, the murmured conversations started up again. No doubt discussing how the inconsiderate lowlifes at Table Six had spoiled the evening for everyone.

“Come on, Victor.” Michael glugged a hefty swig of port into both their glasses. “She didn’t mean it. She’s just... you know. It’s a lot to leave a job after thirty years.”

Victor shrank. “I just wanted this to be a last hurrah, before I have to... go.”

Yeah.

Michael reached across the table and patted Victor’s arm. “I know, mate. I know.”

But all the excitement and joy had gone from the table.