Seems I’ve the same taste in restaurants as irrepressible old rocker Rod Stewart.
The 79-year-old Celtic fan stopped off at the wonderful Silver Darling last week before the game at Pittodrie.
Not only did my mum nae think Rod was sexy, her words when she heard his gravelly voice were aye: “Canna sing for toffee.”
Toffee or no, the London-born Scotophile has carved himsellie oot a brilliant career, just announced as one of the headliners at next year’s Glastonbury. He also hit the headlines last week blasting Masterchef bad boy Gregg Wallace for bullying his wife, Penny Lancaster, during her time on the show in 2021, which begs the question: what took him so long?
From its bonnie, superbly appropriate name to its spectacular position in the old customs’ house on Pocra Quay, it’s been my all time favourite eatooterie since it was opened in the mid 1980s.
From the floor-to-ceiling windows, you’re almost within touching distance of the huge ships plying oot and in the harbour, while the northern windows look right across the beach and up the coast. Add to that my passion for seafood and it’s no wonder I’m one of its many fans.
However, the restaurant also brings back memories of one of my nightmare evenings as a hostess.
My bridesmaid from my first wedding and her hubby were up from London for the weekend, I invited them for dinner chez Mo. They won’t mind my saying they’ve boat-loadsa-dosh and probably spend almost as much time on fabulous liners at sea as they do on land, where they adore gourmet food.
The evening before coming to me, they were to be at The Silver Darling with other friends. So I decided to push my ain boat oot on a really special meal to rival The Darling, courtesy of Mary Berry.
Smoked salmon roulade (affa fichery) guinea fowl (a first for me) then Eton Mess. The only place I could track down the birdies was the Dobie’s butcher, John Davidsons of Inverurie, ordered well in advance.
But when I went to collect the two portioned craiters they hadn’t arrived. Panic, panic. A lovely gadgie fae Inverurie eventually drove in and delivered my precious parcel right to my door.
After an all-day sair-fecht, I was that prood. A’ the food turned oot to die for, especially the guinea fowl – a super-rich casserole including cream, mushrooms, bacon and sherry.
But pride gings afore a fall. Ower pre-prandial cocktails, as I handed roon the nibbles, I noticed my guests kept abstaining.
Probably saving theirsellies for my feast, I mused. At the table, served the beautifully presented salmon roulade.
But man, they were just pickin’ at it. No to the fine bread rolls. Then he oot wi’ it. That morning they’d ordered kippers for their breakfast at their hotel. Sounds delish. Sadly dodgie.
Baith had been badly Spewy Lewy a’ efterneen, still felt rotten but didnae want to let me doon. Such troopers.
Sure enough. when I looked closely, they were a bittie green aboot the gills. That’s when I broke the news about the (super-rich, creamy guinea fowl and a’ the trouble it had been to get. Then we all started to laugh. Truth be told, they could manage only a few mouthfuls of each course of my banquet, apologising profusely all the while.
Since way back then, it’s been a running joke with us whenever we’re eating together, one of us aye sayin’ “I could murder a guinea fowl.”
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal and started her journalism career in 1970.
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