Short Story
THE LADY MACBETH Jenny Campbell, Sherborne Scribblers
A
s a newly opened restaurant, aiming to pull in the finest of Scottish and international diners, The Lady Macbeth could have been better named. Situated in some gloomy Scottish glen, miles from civilisation, it conjured up dark deeds and three old crones at the entrance, cackling insanely while they stirred some vile concoction of soup. I hadn’t even seen the place, but, in my opinion as a food critic, this one sounded unlikely to survive more than a couple of seasons. I said as much to my godmother, Aunt Meg, who was raving about the place and had invited me to stay and write about it for ‘that wee paper of yours.’ ‘Well, excuse me, Aunt, but the The London Times is hardly that.’ ‘Aye, well, Jinty, you know what I mean. But I can tell you that friends in Edinburgh, are already singing its praises and it takes a lot to impress them.’ Given that Aunt Meg loved travelling and always stayed in the best hotels, noted for their fine cuisine, she was no mean critic herself. So, I was intrigued, if not exactly enthusiastic as we set off from her adorable cottage in Argyllshire on an early evening in September. And forget what I said about gloomy, for Glen Cawdor was a stunningly beautiful symphony of autumnal colours, with hills on either side of us that made me want to stop the car, forget about returning to London and spend the rest of the month stretched out on a bed of deep purple heather. Could The Lady Macbeth restaurant match the scenery, I wondered? If the hotel featuring it – a mini Balmoral castle – was anything to go by, the signs were good. Not too far off the beaten track, I’m glad to say, it was set in magnificent grounds beside a tranquil loch and, thankfully, there were no witches to welcome us. Only Malcolm McThane, the kilted owner, who greeted Aunt Meg by name and personally conducted us to a well-stocked bar containing, behind the brass-railed counter, what looked like every Scottish whisky known to man – or woman. ‘Can we tempt you?’ asked the young American bartender whose smile certainly could have. ‘Maybe a wee Glenmorangie for me,’ said Aunt Meg, while I settled for a dry martini that was as good as any I had ever tasted in New York. Chatting to Duncan, after our host’s departure, we learned that Malcolm had made a mint in Silicon Valley. His late wife had been an actress renowned for her Lady Macbeth, and the restaurant was his tribute to her. We sipped our drinks at tartan-draped windows offering a panoramic view of the loch. The dark blue and green tartan, with white and gold stripes was, according to Aunt Meg, a modern Campbell of Argyll; and along with the Scandinavian ceiling lights they gave a pleasing, contemporary look to the room. All now depended on the food. Perusing the menu, I was relieved to find that there was not a single haggis, lentil soup nor gammon steak to sully its pages. Instead, there was good Aberdeen Angus beef (including a Carpet-bag Steak Stuffed with Oysters), all kinds of Highland game dishes and from the Argyllshire coast, lobsters, langoustines and scallops, salmon from the river Spey and local loch trout. For American and Canadian visitors tracing their Scottish ancestry, it must have been sheer heaven.
138 | Sherborne Times | May 2022
