Short Story

THE LADY MACBETH

Jenny Campbell, Sherborne Scribblers

As 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.

The bar décor was reflected in the dining room and, again, there was that nod to America in the tartan upholstered, intimate banquettes looking not at all out of place among the more formal tables on which the silver gleamed. The Swedish crystal sparkled and the napery had been starched to within an inch of its damask life. Aunt and I were placed at a table for two, overlooking the loch, where I was torn between the game pie, steak and my favourite Lobster Newburg. However, when in Scotland… so, it was the charcoal-grilled Filet Mignon for me, while Aunt Meg chose Roast Grouse with Bread Sauce. Starters were a little more exotic.

‘Well, Jinty, I can recommend the Fennel and Strathdon (Aberdeen blue cheese) Soup so I am going to have that. What about you?’

‘Mmm … Smoked Trout with Cream and Horseradish or Pheasant Terrine? Oh, the terrine with chestnuts, I think.’

To accompany my steak, I chose a crisp green salad with Roquefort dressing and a baked potato topped with sour cream, chives and crispy bacon pieces; Aunt Meg, meanwhile, savoured the prospect of roast new potatoes, minted peas and Bramley apple red cabbage. Both courses lived up to expectations and the Bearnaise sauce with my steak was made to perfection by Banquo, the chef, or one of his minions.

‘Now, Jinty,’ said Aunt Meg, when it was time for dessert, ‘I want no arguments. You have never been in Scotland for Hogmanay, so I have taken the liberty of asking chef to make us a wee Clootie Dumpling – a rich fruit pudding (steamed in a cloth/clootie) – and brandy sauce.’

‘Although,’ she added, with a certain disappointment, ‘you can have the Iced Cranachan Trifle if you’d prefer.’

The latter, apparently, was a combination of whisky-soaked muesli, honey, cream and raspberry sorbet. But I am a dutiful goddaughter, so it was the dumpling for both of us; and if mine was a sample then I am going to make damned sure that Aunt invites me up for Hogmanay this year.

Did I mention the vino? Well, neither Aunt nor I are wine buffs but we know what we like: Chateau-neuf for me and a Sancerre for Aunty. Later, with her coffee, she went the whole hog and ordered a Lagavulin of which I, our driver for the evening, had a sip and managed not to choke at the cost.

Somehow, I think my editor may decide that he needs to accompany me for New Year.

‘Aye, well … all right,’ as Aunt Meg would say.

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Tuesday 24th May 7pm The Powell Theatre, Abbey Road, Sherborne Tickets £9 members £10 non-members available via www.sherborneliterarysociety.com/events and Winstone’s Books