THE KITCHIN: HS'S MEAL OF THE YEAR 2009

The woman at the table of four next to ours lifted her pre-dinner glass of champagne and made a toast.

“Here’s to surprises” she said as her companions looked each other in the eye and clinked glasses.

I glanced down at my menu and thought to myself “wait until you see the bloody prices, love. You’ll get all the surprises you can handle”

The pricing at The Kitchin is not for those faint of heart or wallet. Starters come in at around the £17 mark, main courses nudge and often whiz past £30 as if it was a wheezy fat boy on a cross country run, the puddings are a flicker less than a tenner and the tasting menu is about the same price as a recent model Ford Focus from a reputable dealer.

“It had better be good” I added out loud as Sybil drew in a large intake of breath and did a silent conversion of worthless Sterling to Yankee dollars.

First impressions were less than positive. Bread was cold and workaday, butter hard if not quite fridge fresh. I was beginning to regret having listened to my juniors and betters who had told me that The Kitchin was a must not miss for the Edinburgh portion of our round Britain tour.

Then things got better, much better. Amuse seldom do, but a mini bowl of game consommé was, quite frankly astonishing. Flecked with teeny-weeny diced vegetables and slivers of bone marrow, the crystal clear broth was seasoned generously and layered with flavour. I began to realise why people whose opinions I respect had raved about The Kitchin.

The regular menu is supplemented by a list of autumn specials, but I began with one of the signature dishes in the form of Pig’s Head and Langoustine. This dish has Kitchin’s style all over it, robust flavours complimented by elegance and technique. The head meat had been boned, rolled and laced with cumin, fennel seed and garam masala. In the hands of someone less deft, it could have been too much. Instead the flavours contrasted perfectly with the sweet meat of a small langoustine tail and the creamy base of a sauce gribiche.

Sybil’s razor clams may have carried their Scottish name “spoots” on the menu, but the approach to cooking them was Iberian in nature with chorizo and diced vegetables adding taste to a mollusc that is primarily all about texture. She preferred her dish, I preferred mine. Everyone was a winner.

Our wait for the main course was interrupted by the arrival of a complimentary dish from the kitchen. It’s churlish to be mean about any free food and fortunately, I don’t have to be about the dish which appeared courtesy of this Kitchin. This was the best course of food I have eaten all year, anywhere. A long beef bone had been roasted and split in two, half on each plate. On top had been layered a generous portion of meaty snails, equally robust chanterelle mushrooms and strips of crisp Jamon Iberico. Some sharp parsley added crunch and finally it was topped with a small, perfectly cooked quails egg whose yolk broke to add a glistening coating to the other ingredients. Even Sybil, who is ambivalent to matters cow related when it comes to eating, wiped her plate clean, scooping the last of the hot, blubbery marrow from the bone with a small spoon.

I am a great fan of food being prepared at the table. We don’t see nearly enough of it any more. What ever happened to the likely lads of flambéed steak and the Crepe Suzette? It is time to bring a bit of tableside theatre back to dining. So, we both jumped at the chance of sharing a main course of whole roasted John Dory carved in front of us by our charming Gallic server. Dinner theatre does not come cheap, however, and our fish would need to do some pretty fancy acting to justify the £64 price tag. Fortunately, it was as good a piece of St Peter’s Fish as I can recall being served. The fish flaked perfectly and worked well with some braised seasonal vegetables and a terrific beurre blanc. Only two cloves of garlic let the side down, having been under cooked delivering a harsh raw taste rather than the complimentary sweetness I expect was their purpose.

I was confused by the absence of a pre-dessert. Not that I craved any more free dishes, but what had gone before had been so rich and so densely flavoured, that a mouth cleansing something would have been useful as we waited for dessert to arrive. When they did, my mouth was still filled with the taste of consommé, pig’s head, bone marrow and beurre blanc, which left a competent if uninspiring tarte tatin flailing in the face of such strong opponents. Sybil’s chocolate soufflé was an excellent version, but almost too rich to finish and she needed the help of her future life partner to polish it off. Hey, that’s what I am there for.

These final dishes when added to a bottle of sparkling mineral water for me, a glass of wine for Sybil and a well deserved tip brought the bill to £150 for two, a whacking great amount for anyone. However, although I am still reeling from the cost, for one of those all too rare occasions I don’t feel like I have been bent over when fine dining in the UK.

Although, I may not have suffered the anticipated rectal pain and although the meal at The Kitchin may not have been without its flaws, it still knocked just about every other meal of its type this year into a cocked hat. And, in that plate of roasted marrow bone, quail egg, jamon iberico, chanterelle and snails, it produced a dish I shall be day dreaming about for a long time to come.

EATING FOR BRITAIN: ON THE ROAD WITH RHIDIAN

I meet amazing, curious and crazy people as I travel around, but few have been as beguilingly barking as my new chum, Rhidian. I was put in touch with him by Henrietta Lovell, of The Rare Tea Company, who explained that he often took his obsession with food to ridiculous levels. After one short day in his company, I can see what she means, hanging with Rhidian is a dangerous business.

He reminded me of a character from Wallace & Grommit, with unbounded and infectious enthusiasm for everything and everybody, particularly food and food people. His first sage advice was to have a light breakfast at my guesthouse and I soon began to understand why after I met him as planned opposite The Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street and he began to outline his challenging food itinerary for the day.

First up, second breakfast at a small, unassuming café called Embo where, while Rhidian broke open a decent looking wrap, I found room for a large portion of scrambled eggs and local smoked trout on honey bread.

Next up, one of the highlights of the day, indeed one of the highlights of any number of days. Rhidian took me to meet his chum Mark who runs George Bowers, one of Edinburgh’s top game butchers. Rhidian, it transpired knew everyone there well and would often pop in to help in busy times in return for being taught the skills of a master butcher. This shop is the real deal. A huge chill room filled with ageing beef, game birds waiting to be plucked and butchers of years standing, cutting and trimming with uncanny precision. Rhidian had persuaded Mark not only to show me how they made their haggis, but also to allow me to create my own Chieftain O’ The Pudding Race.

In a large steamer, the carcasses of trimmed game were being boiled to make a deep stock whose gamey fumes filled the air. In a pan, Mark mixed this with the classic ingredients for the haggis, heart, lung, liver and fat. He cooked them off for a short while before mincing with fresh onions and then adding the spices (lots of white pepper, I reckon) and pinhead oatmeal and then it was my turn as I was instructed to rinse off the salted ox stomach used for the casing and then, using the sausage machine, to make a haggis of my very own.

Well, despite the laughter from the assembled, gnarly faced old butchers, I thought I did a rather splendid job and was pleased as punch when Mark wrapped my creation up for me and added to it a fresh Scotch pie for extra measure.

After a quick stop at Luca, one of Edinburgh’s most famous ice cream shops, I was surprised when Rhidian slotted his car into a small space in front of what appeared to be a very ordinary looking Chinese restaurant. Rhidian, as I was realising, doesn’t do ordinary and assured me that I was in for a treat. Chop Chop, run by Chinese chef Jian and her English husband, Roy specialises in dumplings from the Northern East regions of China and, under their guidance the staff presented us with plate after plate of juicy, succulent dumplings both boiled and lightly fried. Alongside these came simple yet flavour packed side dishes of green beans and a particularly stunning plate of aubergine in garlic and chilli. Chop Chop already has great reviews in Scotland and recently came second to the famed Manchester restaurant Yang Sing in a major competition sponsored by Tsing Tao.

One can’t help thinking that any broadsheet reviewer willing to eat outside Fulham and head to Morningside, might just be on to a real winner. I can safely say that, if Chop Chop were in London, it would be as busy as Tayyabs. That’s how good it is.

Next stop was one of my organising, a chance to meet with the good people of MacSween’s haggis. Unfortunately, they are a bit iffy about pictures being taken in the factory, so I don’t have anything to show for a fascinating and hugely enjoyable two hour visit with James and Jo MacSween, but what interested myself and Rhidian, who joined me, most was the similarity in enthusiasm between them and Mark at George Bowers. MacSween may be making tonnes more of the things, but their passion for what they are doing was obvious and their generosity likewise as they plied us with goodie bags to take away.

Rhidian had plans to finish me off with not one but two classic Scottish fish suppers. Unfortunately, after the first, at The Cadora Café, just across The Forth Road Bridge, I was spent. Rhidian had beaten me and, despite his cries of “lightweight” the savoury sweat oozing from my brow told me that I should probably call it quits and head to my next guesthouse.

So, after following him back to his house to borrow a cool bag to store my haul for the day, I headed off through the winding unlit lanes of Fife in the direction of the village of Pittenweem, where I would be spending the night mainlining Zantac.

I am already planning a rematch with Rhidian next time he comes to London. The bugger wont know what hit him.

EATING FOR BRITAIN: BURNS AND THE DOGS

Just by the Brig O’ Doon, where across did Tam O’Shanter ride, in the small town of Alloway, home of Robert Burns, there is an imprint in the soil. It is rounded, deep and shows signs of sticky out ears.

It is, in fact, me shaped. A sort of mud angel created when yours truly went arse over tit into the muddy earth on my way back to my charming B&B after a liquid heavy evening to launch the year of Scottish Homecoming. I arrived, well past midnight, with the slurry of the rain sodden earth dripping from me like chocolate oozing from a well made fondant.

Up to that point, however, it had all been rather fun. The disappointment of finding there was no haggis on the menu for the event (not to worry, plenty of haggis yet to come) was soon forgotten as I sipped on a Whisky based cocktail and then found myself entering the stunning dining room of the Brig o’ Doon, house hotel alongside assorted dignitaries and even the Scottish First Minister himself, gathered to celebrate Burns birth with a blow out meal.

In between each course, of a supper based on excellent Scottish ingredients, we were serenaded by well known artists, including the sublime Sandi Thom, giving us their renditions of Burn’s songs. And, while the meal suffered the usual banquet problems of over saucing, the quality of the scallops and langoustines in one dish alone made the journey from London worthwhile.

Here is a quick competition, the evening ended with a toast to Burns made with one of 250 bottles of 37 year old Famous Grouse. Why are the numbers significant?

Waking up groggy headed and still finding mud in improbable places the next morning, I made my way the short hope to Edinburgh, where, after depositing my car at the next B&B, I headed out to find something to eat. A hugely depressing experience as the best Edinburgh had to offer, outside of its Michelin starred elite seemed to be grubby shops selling, pizzas, kebabs and, for some bizarre reason baguettes. I bought a bottle of wine and some fruit and retired to my room to catch up on my writing.

A solid rib sticker of a breakfast made me feel more sanguine about the whole thing and I decided to make an assault up Arthur’s seat, to make room for lunch. It had been nearly 25 years since I set foot in the city as a fresh faced, idealistic student appearing in a play on The Edinburgh Fringe. It and I were appalling, but my concerns that someone might recognise me and ride me out of town on a rail for crimes against theatre were unfounded and I soon found it time to meet my new chum, Martha Bryce, at her choice of lunch venue, The Dogs.

In a city seemingly filled with poor budget eating options, The Dogs stands out. In fact, The Dogs would stand out in any city and every city, no every neighbourhood, should have a place like it. It is a dining room in the true sense. Well made food in small, sharing portions made from good ingredients with no dish over £5.25. If HP had been with me, I suspect we would have ordered the lot.

As it was, both Martha and I began with soup. My disappointment that the Cullen Skink had run out moments before was short lived when we were both presented with bowls of steaming Scotch Broth. This is the sort of soup my granny used to make with a deep stock offering up a few scraps of meat and lots of swollen pearl barley and a few carrots. Nutritious and nourishing, the sort of dish I was hoping to find on my journey. Like wise a special of Ox Liver with onions, which, gave up pink chunks of offal and slivers of sweet red onion in a sharp sauce. It was spot on, as was Martha’s own choice of haddock coated in crunchy pinhead oatmeal, with only the silly fat, unpeeled chips adding a duff note.

I have a feeling that my experiences in Scotland so far will prove to be common as I travel around the whole of the UK. Incredible ingredients balanced by lots of crappy places selling crappy food and some real gems to be unearthed by happenstance or local guideance.

I wonder if I should change to book title to EATING FOR BRITAIN:THERE’S SOME GREAT FOOD OUT THERE IF YOU TRY HARD ENOUGH