The Tasting Menu

Course 8 You Shall Go To the Ball

Flame-grilled Pumpkin, roast Calf’s Feet, Gold Leaf, toasted Pine Nuts, Thyme-&-Nettle velouté, dusted with Oak-Ash powder

After all the morning whisky, Michael skipped pre-dinner cocktails and opted for a pint of fizzy water instead — sitting at the table in their private booth, opposite a shell-shocked Alex and an empty seat. Am Bòrd Mòr had laid the table as if Victor was just a little late for the banquet to begin, a single red rose placed on his plate.

He’d have liked that.

Alex cleared her throat and rearranged her cutlery. “Did you get any rest?”

“Can’t believe he’s gone...”

“I didn’t see you at lunch.”

Michael took a deep breath. “It was so sudden.” Blinking back the tears. “Didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

She reached across the table and patted his arm. Just like he’d done for Victor last night. “I know it’s hard, but—”

That little brass bell dingle-ding-ding-dinged again, and the dining room fell silent for the Concierge. “Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin tonight’s banquet, I’d like to raise a glass to our distinguished and dear departed guest, Mr Victor McAllister.”

The sound of chairs scraping back came from the other booths.

Alex and Michael stood too, raising their mismatched glasses.

The Concierge let his name ring out: “To Mr McAllister.”

And the other guests joined in: “Mr McAllister.”

Michael swallowed the lump in his throat. “To Victor.”

Alex closed her eyes. “To Victor.”

They drank, and the sound of shifting chairs filled the room once more, followed by the chatter of excited hotel guests looking forward to another excellent meal.

Michael frowned at the pint of water, then at Alex’s gin-and-tonic.

Yeah...

He was going to need something stronger than Perrier to get through tonight.

If last night’s meal was theatre, tonight’s banquet was a full-on theme park. A lot more meat-heavy than before, but every bit as delicious. Even if the spark had kind of gone out of things.

It was hard to dig in with enthusiasm when one of your two best friends was lying on a mortuary slab in Inverness. Which was wrong, because there was no way in hell Victor would support wasting good food.

Michael took a bite of perfectly cooked spare rib — the meat juicy and tender, not falling-off-the-bone, but just firm enough to come away clean with a gentle bite. Smoky, well sauced and spiced, savoury, and probably the best ribs he’d ever had.

The booth door opened and Brother Waiter entered, bearing a tray with two glasses of white wine on it. He placed one glass in front of each of them, then stood with his head bowed in a suitably sombre pose. “This is a 1990 Nicolas Joly ‘Clos de la Coulée de Serrant’, from Savennières in the Loire Valley. Courtesy of Table One, in celebration of Mr McAllister.”

Michael stared at him. “‘In celebration’...?”

Alex blinked. Then nodded. “Yeah. No, that’s right. That’s the way to do it.” She smiled up at the waiter. “Please, tell Table One, ‘thank you’, from us.” Then raised her glass. “In celebration.”

Which didn’t seem right at all.

But what else was there?

It took a couple of moments, but Michael clinked his wine glass against hers.

As if on cue, a round of applause crackled out from somewhere in the dining room.

Michael sipped at the golden Chenin Blanc: honey, apples, warm apricot-and-lemon notes, with a lovely mineral finish. “Wow, that is good.”

Victor would’ve approved.

The third course was slow-braised veal, with mushrooms and stuffed apples in a rich jus. Sticky and comforting.

Brother Waiter placed a glass of red on the table for each of them. “Château Margaux, 2000, Bordeaux. From Table Two, in celebration of Mr McAllister.”

Alex and Michael reached for the new glasses.

Langoustines and lobster tails glistened atop an exquisite pale ragù and al dente tagliatelle.

A pair of tulip glasses appeared with a flourish.

“1992 Domaine Baron Thenard Montrachet, Burgundy, from Table Three. In celebration of Mr McAllister.”

Lovely.

Nothing remained on Michael’s plate. Not even a smear of crème brûlée.

Alex dabbed up the last crumbs of strawberry-and-basil tuile on a moistened fingertip, then sat back — pink-cheeked and smiling.

The pair of them rosy with the glow of memorial drinks.

She groaned and pushed her plate away. “Don’t think I’ll need to eat another thing in my entire life.”

“Victor would’ve loved this.”

“That he would.”

They clinked their glasses — a very fine 199 °Château d’Yquem, Sauternes from Bordeaux, courtesy of Table Ten — then drained the last sticky drops.

Michael rubbed his swollen stomach. “Want a nightcap?”

“Urgh. I would literally burst. Besides,” she checked her watch, “nearly midnight. Can’t risk turning into a pumpkin.”

Yeah, she was probably right.

He wobbled to his feet. “Woah...” The room was a bit unsteady, after all that.

“Lightweight.” Alex rolled her eyes, then stood and linked her arm through his. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

The other booths all had their doors closed, the sound of contented after-dinner conversation oozing out through the dark, polished wood.

Michael let himself be led towards the door — putting a fair bit of effort into making his knees work. “I miss him.”

“I know.” The smile faded from her face. “I do too.”

Just a shame it had taken a massive “cardiac incident” to stop the pair of them fighting.