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.

GLENFIDDICH 50 YEAR OLD: A GLORIOUS DRAM IN DUFFTOWN

This new career of mine may not be as lucrative as my previous existence, but you would never hear me denying it is more fun, a lot more fun or that it presents me with the opportunity to experience things I could only ever have dreamed of when I was desk bound.

Last week, just as I was packing for Belfast, I received an e-mail from the good folks at The Guardian’s Word of Mouth blog asking me if I would like to go and represent them at the launch of a rather special whisky. To be exact at the launch of a milestone release from market leader’s in Single Malt, Glenfiddich, a 50 year old whisky that was going to retail for £10,000 a bottle.

I adore Scotch Whisky and, after convincing them that I knew my Blended Whisky from my Blended Malts, I altered my flights and arranged to travel directly from Belfast to Aberdeen and from there to Elgin in Speyside, where a whole slew of real whisky aficionados from around the world were going to hosted by Glenfiddich for two days of tasting.

I often compare Glenfiddich to one of my other favourite spirits, Beefeater Gin, primarily because as market leaders in their category, people often confuse the fact they are produced in considerable volume with the fact that they are mass produced. In both cases things could not be further from the truth and visits to the two distilleries, the chance to meet with the Master Distiller at both locations and, of course, sampling as I have been lucky enough to do, convinces you that these remain crafted products that just happen to have become very popular.

The launch of the 50 Year Old is a big statement from Glenfiddich and shows that, as a family company, they are not beholden to their shareholders and can both take the decision to over produce and store whisky for releases such as this, but also be indulgent enough to do so at a time when many other distilleries, part of publicly owned companies, might not be able to.

Whatever the reasons, the opportunity to be at their distillery for such an historic launch was too good to pass up and the day after my arrival, I hopped on the bus good and early for the short ride to Dufftown and the place where William Grant built the original structure with his own hands well over a hundred years ago.

I have visited many distilleries in my time and I still say that if you can’t get excited about seeing the mash tuns, washbacks and glorious copper stills at work, you must be dead. Then there is that unmistakable smell. First of beer as the malted barley is brewed, then the stills themselves and “the middle cut” is taken from the second distillation as the clear liquid that will become whisky after years of maturation.

Glenfiddich also has its own cooperage, one of the few still to do so, and inside a cavernous shed men were hard at work restoring old barrels and checking new ones ready for filling. Originally, whisky was aged in Sherry barrels, but now predominantly uses barrels from Bourbon distillers who by law can only use each one a single time. Sherry barrels are still used, but are in short supply and I was intrigued to find that Glenfiddich actually has Oloroso sherry made for it for the sole purpose of seasoning barrels for three years after which it is discarded.

David Stewart, the Master Distiller at Glenfiddich works with his team to choose which barrels to blend for the various expressions, 12 year old, 15 year old, 18 year old and so on and, over the course of the two days we got chance to try them all, on their own or paired with food. However, I was really there for one reason and, on the last night we were shipped back to the distillery for the eagerly awaited launch supper.

I had managed to squeeze myself into a dinner suit for the first time in well over ten years, but most of the other men, including many journalists who had borrowed them, were in full Scottish attire with kilts swirling worryingly in a stiff breeze as we were piped into the dining room.

There David Stewart and Peter Gordon, chairman of William Grant served us the 50 year old whisky themselves, placing in front of each of us a commemorative glass engraved for the occasion and then barely filling it enough to cover the bottom. Even that small amount was worth about £500 and given that two bottles were completely emptied, represented considerable generosity on their part.

Was it worth it? Well, even with my limited palate, it was certainly the finest Scotch whisky I have ever tried and aided by the descriptions of David and other famous Whisky imbibers at the table, I was able to discern the key aromas of citrus, rose petals and even green tobacco. The taste too was out of this world and I took sparing drops onto my tongue and let it linger there until the flavours of orange and a little smoke began to reveal themselves.

All too soon the last drops from each glass were gone and we turned our attention to a delicious supper as the celebration haggis was piped into the room to be served with plenty of wine and even more glasses of whisky, this time the 15 Year Old, lovely in its own right.

And that was it. The next morning, I was back at Aberdeen airport and on my way back to London. I wish I could say that a bottle of the 50 Year Old found its way into my luggage, but I suspect a contract on my life would have followed it. A mere 450 bottles will be released at the rate of 50 a year and represent a huge income for Glenfiddich, so I don’t begrudge them sending me home with just some of their other whisky.

It was a great privilege to be asked to go and cover this event. It was just as great a privileged to get the chance to visit another beautiful distillery but most of all, it was a privilege to have the opportunity to taste that astonishing 50 year-old whisky.

I know that my night time drop of Scotch is never going to taste the same again.

EATING FOR BRITAIN: SMOKIN' IN ARBROATH, BUFFALO AND A FORFAR BRIDIE

Although I am guilty of using it myself, I am not a fan of the term “food hero”

Its use as a term to label people who produce and sell amazing food serves only to remind us of the fact that, in the UK, such people are still a relative rarity and on the continent, in countries such as Spain, France and Italy, such producers, while respected and admired are not subjected to such silly marketing tags.

The producers themselves are not that keen on the term either and, while they may welcome recognition of their work and excellence in prestige and cash, they don’t see themselves as heroes, merely people with a huge passion for what they do.

Take two people I met last week at the tail end of my journey in Scotland for EATING FOR BRITAIN, Iain Spink, maker of Arbroath Smokies and Stephen Mitchell of Puddledub Butchers. Both were hugely enthusiastic and dedicated, but it was the food they offered that they wanted to talk about rather than themselves.

I met Iain Spink after a long drive South from Cullen. As I walked into the warehouse where the haddock for Arbroath smokies was being processed, Iain was already hard at work, cleaning and tying the fish in preparation for salting and smoking. He had been at it for some time, but there were still hundreds of fish to prepare. So, while he worked he gave me a potted history of the smokie (we both thought having its origins with Nordic traders who settled in the area) and the battle of his father, Robert to gain PGI (Product of Geographical Importance) status for them from the E.U.

Iain is the only producer who still smokes his fish over wooden barrels filled with smouldering hard beech and oak wood and he spends weekends taking his hand built rig around the farmer’s markets of Fife and some of Scotland’s many Highland games selling his fish “hot off the fire” to an increasingly willing public. After an enjoyable morning and a lunch where I sampled my first smokie in Arbroath at a local pub (not one of his, but a decent example he declared) we made plans to meet two days later at the Kirkcaldy farmer’s market where I would be able to see him in action.

He also persuaded me to take a detour to Forfar to sample another local delicacy, The Forfar Bridie. Akin to a Cornish pasty, the Bridies were hot out of the oven when I walked into Saddler’s Bakery, their spiritual home. They too are after PGI status for their dish, but unfortunately no one can seem to agree if they should be made with short crust or flaky pastry, so have not got very far. I sampled one of each, and can say for the record that short crust is the way to go.

After a slightly depressing night in Arbroath where the chill winds were howling through the town off the sea and the thought of a pint of McEwan’s heavy in an unwelcoming pub followed by a kebab did not appeal, I was pleased to point my car South again towards Kirkcaldy.

En route I made a stop at a small, grim village called Kenaway. There would be no reason to ever stop there if it were not for the slightly unlikely presence of one of the best butchers you are ever likely to see, S. Mitchell at Puddledub. Stephen Mitchell is frighteningly young and already carving (sorry!) out quite a name for himself for the quality of the beef and lamb he sells. But, it was not that which was of interest, it was the fact that Stephen also raises and sells Buffalo as a healthy alternative to beef and has won a plethora of awards for his unusual product.

After a happy half hour chatting to Stephen and an even more happy half hour watching his butchers cut meat and make sausages, I headed off to my B&B in Kirkcaldy and, after dumping my bags, set out to find something for supper. It was at this point that the true dichotomy of eating in Scotland hit me. One the one hand I had spent time over the last week with producers of some extraordinary foods, producers of haggis, pies and oatcakes alongside eating some of the best beef and seafood I have ever tasted. Yet, as I trudged along Kirkcaldy High St at 7pm on a damp, cold evening, none of it was on offer.

There were eight, yes eight Indian restaurants, the usual Chinese take-away, a Thai restaurant and even a Polish deli, but there was not a sign of Scotland in any of them except the obligatory fish & chip shop, and even I could not face another fish supper. I couldn’t even get a decent drink with every grim pub filled with people drinking 99p pints of Carling Extra Cold. I just couldn’t do it, so slunk back to my guesthouse, made a cup of tea and caught up with my writing.

The next morning, as I walked towards the bus station, opposite which the farmers market was held, I could already see whisps of smoke in the air and I arrived to see Iain and his two helpers, Jim and Holly hard at work hooking the fish on staves and stoking the embers of the already smouldering fire. Iain was laying the first fish, trout as well as haddock, over the barrels and covering them with dampened hessian sacks to make sure the smoke did not escape.

By 9am, the market was already coming to life and a steady queue formed at Iain’s stall. Many were regulars, who follow Iain from farmers market to market to make sure they get a regular fix of his smoked goodness and, although most were of the older generation, I was pleased to see that kids too were trying the fish as it came off the fire. Some took their fish away wrapped to eat at home and others requested them open so they could eat them there and then, hot juices running off the paper as they walked away

Then it was my turn. Iain cut open a smokie and laid it out for me to pick at. It is hard to describe just how good an Arbroath Smokie tastes and, unless you travel up to Scotland, you will never get one from Iain Spink. The oils from the fish glisten on the flaked flesh and the smoke flavour is subtle. I can say now, even after travelling the globe, this is one of my top ten tastes of all time. Add to that the hot smoked trout and I was glad that I had passed up the opportunity of a cooked breakfast at my guesthouse that morning. Iain smiled as I made loud slurping noises as I ate and wrapped up some for me to take away.

By 11am, it was time to head back to Rotherham for a night or two before the next stage of the journey. I stopped by to say hi to Stephen Mitchell who was also at the market and made many appreciative noises when he handed me a bag of goodies to sample. Then it was time to go.

It’s a long drive and, turning down the chance to listen to “wossy” on the radio, I began to think about what I had experienced in Scotland. Incredible friendliness, great B&B’s, wonderful food produced by dedicated people and a population who, on the whole, didn’t give a crap and were prepared to eat and drink junk as long as it was cheap.

At the market, I had met, Christopher Trotter, former owner of famous restaurant The Scottish Larder who was doing a cookery demonstration using ingredients from the stalls. I asked him for his opinion on the great divide. He just laughed and said

"John Knox has a lot to answer for"

He certainly has.

Onwards!

HAGGIS: FEELING THE BURNS NIGHT

Friday sees the official start of my EATING FOR BRITAIN trip.

In the early morning, I shall throw a few things in the back of my recently purchased, battered old Ford Focus and point it Northwards to Scotland where for the next eight months I shall be travelling in search of some of the finest that this beautiful country of ours has to offer.

What better way to begin, given that 2009 marks the 250th anniversary of Robert Burns birth, than to head up to Alloway, his home town and accept the kind offer to attend a large, traditional Burns Night, celebration. There will, of course, be the wailing of pipers, the intoning of the immortal words over the “wee timorous beastie” and, possibly even some men in kilts offering me the chance to see their dirks, ahem.

We wont be alone, however, as on the day itself, the 25th January, over 1500 official Burns Suppers have been registered around the world with many more going on in the homes of teary eyed ex-pats.

By way of preparation, last night I cooked up a small little example of lung, hearts, liver, oats, barley and spices in a stomach, from the finest of all makers of Haggis, MacSweens and served it with a traditional side of mashed turnips and slightly less conventional additions of mashed sweet potatoes and a thick parsley sauce.

There are lots of ways of cooking a haggis, but I went for the quick method of using the microwave, which may seem controversial, but is in fact a tradition that goes way back to the mid 1960’s where it was invented by the feared Clan McWhirlpool.

To make sure it did not dry out, I doused the meat with a good glug of whisky while cooking and, of course, made sure to do the same as I was eating it.

My journey is going to bring me, I am sure, into contact with some amazing food and some equally amazing people, but there could be few better ways to begin than to pay homage to this little creature from North of the border