Eating Amongst Tweed Elbow Patches and Velvet Hairbands

Last night, I went to the Darroch Clearg and BY JOVE is it the best food I have ever had in my entire life. Ok, it’s maybe not the best, but it’s definitely up there with all the other top meals I have devoured. It’s perhaps on par with that glorious baked potato with beans and cheese I once had on a boat (in Scotland in November: crazy? Yes) – frozen to death and soaking wet, NOTHING had ever tasted so good as that tattie. And the dashes of splayed salt water made it even better in my opinion.

But anyway, this is about the Darroch Clearg. Look at it! ‘Ain’t it a quaint little place? When we arrived, Dad decided that we’d have a drink in the lounge first before going to our table and after one glass of wine, I must sadly admit, that I was a bit pissed. I’d been at work all day, it had been unusually busy and I was also looking after the owner’s little girl so I didn’t have any time to eat anything. I was running off one Haribo fried egg, thus the wine went straight to my head and I was in that horrendous position of trying to act sober.

It didn’t go too well.

Dad: Josie, are you a bit pissed?

Me: Nooo, you’re pisssssssed more. I’m FINE. Is there anymore of those canapés? I could eat a Kentucky fried chicken bucket of them.

Dad: You want a KFC?

Me: No! I want a KFC bucket of the canapés!!

Sadly, this conversation was doomed to fail as we were then shown to our table and it became clear that this was the sort of place where they pull the chairs out for you and then tuck you in. Now, I find this difficult enough to manoeuvre when sober, let alone drunk. I constantly get the timing wrong and sit down before they have a chance to push me in and so end up about a metre away from the table. Then I have to try and act like I want to be a metre away from the table; that this silly position was in fact, deliberate. It’s really just dreadfully awkward and I wish they would do away with the whole thing, but alas, tradition will prevail.

Then it was time for the…it wasn’t the first course. They called it a “Taster” or something? I can’t remember, but anyway, here it is:

I’m not exactly sure what this was, but I would call it a mushroom soup voulevant. It was delicious, but trying to break through the pastry tidily to get to the soup was no easy matter. I sort of squashed it into the soup and ate it all together and it was so good, that I wanted to run my finger around the tiny little pot so as to savour every last ounce, but I think the sort of place we were in would frown upon that sort of behaviour and so I restrained myself. I honestly felt like a heroin addict looking at heroin that they were not allowed to have, although I don’t know what that feels like, but I could imagine it would be pretty tough.

And then it was on to the first course:

Gosh, my photography is jolly awful. This photo should show you a plate of pan fried scallops on a bed of some sort of risotto, with a drizzle of some sort of orange…drizzle. Ok, I think it’s safe to say I can tick photographer AND food critic off my list of possible careers. But again, this dish was marvellous. The scallops melted in my mouth, the orange drizzle drizzled, and the risotto was creamy and delicious.

AND NOW. For the pièce de résistance:

A rare Aberdeen Angus fillet steak on a bed of pomme purée (mashed tatties?) and tortellini (pasta?) drizzled in jus (gravy?). I could have eaten at least ten of those bad boys (sorry Angus). The meat practically fell off my fork and melted in my mouth – have you EVER eaten meat that’s melted?! Oh, it was truly divine. And then, how’s this for a cherry on the cake, Dad gave me a leg of his lamb, which wasn’t as good as the steak – nothing COULD be as good as that steak – but was very nearly equally delicious. The meat was juicy and tender and the fat was crisp – HOW did they manage to do that?

And then I didn’t have a pudding as I was very stuffed and am trying to get my bikini bod on for the rest of the summer (as you can probably gather, it isn’t going too well). But yes, I would highly, highly, highly recommend this restaurant if you ever find yourself in the Ballater area.

Just remember your tweed elbow patches and velvet hairband.

Don’t Drink and Raft

This isn’t where I went rafting, but it is a bed of water so it’ll have to do. I was going to take my phone down to the river to, you know, capture the experience, but then I thought that that is possibly the worst idea I have ever had. It would definitely have been another phone-in-water fiasco.

So as usual, the prospect of this great rafting trip was making me feel quite nervous. What is it about rafting down a river on a lovely, sunny day that makes me nervous, you ask? WELL. The person who asked me to go is an old friend from primary and I mean, we were great friends at primary; got on like a house on fire and all that, but when we went to secondary school that changed. Basically, she became one of the cool ones and I…well, I didn’t.

FRIENDSHIP OVER.

But as is also usual, my fears and anxieties were put to rest pretty quickly (after I accidentally told her I’m a bit of a stoner, which I’m really not. She’s invited me round for a gramme, or half bag, or I DON’T KNOW, something along those lines, for a wee “smokey night”. I have no idea what this entails and I’m scared I might die so I’m definitely going to come up with some sort of excuse and BACK THE HELL OUT) and we slipped right back into our old, primary relationship.

The wine definitely helped.

As for the actual rafting part…well, it’s the sort of thing that sounds really good and fun and spontaneous and exciting and adventurous, but in reality, it’s really just a lot of hard-work and grunting and falling in and banging your head on the paddles. I had no idea the river was so shallow! We were grounded pretty much 94% of the time and basically just scraped down the river. But our destination was these FEROCIOUS rapids under a big old bridge and holy moly was it exciting when we finally got there. There was a tiny island just before the rapids so we thought we’d get off there and finish the wine before trying not to drown. It was at this point that I made a tremendous error:

“God, I just HATE shoes, you know? I love being back in the country. You can just go barefoot alllll the time. Seriously, the skin on the soles of my feet is so hard that I probably don’t even need shoes!”

Buuuut, the Shoe Gods obviously overheard and were understandably a bit pissed off as two seconds later, I lost both flip flops in a quick succession and walking home barefoot on the newly gravelled road wisnae fun so I may have to retract my previous statement. Shoe Gods: 1, Josie: 0.

And from then on it was just one disaster after another; launching ourselves off our island, the dinghy ripped, I fell out and was dragged through trees, rocks, sheep wool and dirt, until I finally hit the shallows, ever so slightly bedraggled and not quite sure what had just happened.

Yep, these things are never as good as you think they’ll be, but it was pretty hilarious. I’m absolutely dreading going to work. Everyone at the shop is so upstanding, moral, and just GOOD – I think it’s actually a job requirement. We only discuss the drama that goes on in the village; we NEVER, EVER create it ourselves. I actually made that mistake once: I got very drunk at a local ceilidh, frolicked with a balloon, fell off the stage, and was carried out by a friend and the next day in the shop was bloody horrific. SO MUCH JUDGMENT. And it may be the same today since I was spotted walking home soaking wet, dirty, barefoot, and carrying a deflated dinghy by at least three people.

Oh dear.

P.s. I’m listening to Radio 2 at the minute (I know it’s awful, but I like the music) and the Jeremy Vine show is on and do you know what today’s topic of discussion is?

LOOM BANDS.

This show is just the worst.

Don’t Drink and Mop

Turns out, the tax payers are pissed off:

Better Together Customer (irritable) : On holiday again?

Me (apologetically): Yeah, I seem to have more holidays than I do classes…

I giggle half-heartedly in the hope that I bring him out of his despondence. No such luck.

Better Together Customer (highly unamused): Mmm. And it’s my taxes that are paying for you.

And then he left without a “thank you” or a “goodbye”. I wondered what had got his knickers in a twist since he’s usually a very nice customer – one of my favourites – but now I may have to sneeze on his change.  It’s probably the whole stress of his leaflets being hidden (and his taxes, I guess). Although, when I think back on yesterday, it was a very grumpy day overall. The owners were once again tethered to the Spar after their lovely holiday away so that’s probably why they were tetchy; the other staff had been working long hours while the owners were away so that’s probably why they were tetchy, and I guess the villagers were just fed up with the sunshine:

Me: Hello! Enjoying the lovely sunshine?

Lobster Customer: No. Ah jist cannae get anythin’ done in this bloody heat!

Me: Oh. Yes, terrible. Terrible. Let’s hope it stays away tomorrow and the rain, sleet, hail, and wind come rushing back.

Ok, I didn’t say that last bit, but seriously, thank goodness there’s the weather otherwise no one would have anything to complain about.

But everyone was significantly chirpier today – probably because it’s Friday and they were all away to get pissed. It was my turn to be grumpy this time, although my boss did give me a glass of wine while I mopped up, which was…strange. I didn’t really want it (because being Scottish, I’m just a manic binge drinker), but my boss is very difficult to say no to. He just asks and asks and asks until you want to kill him and so say yes instead as it’s a lot less messy. So I had the glass of wine and I thought it would be ok; that there couldn’t be that many units in the one glass. My Dad, who’s been on the course, always says that it’s ZERO TOLERANCE, but I told myself that it would only be this one time; that I would never do it again. Turns out, one time is all it takes and that after only one glass, my judgments became cloudy and my reactions too slow – a jar of Lloyd Grossman’s Chicken Korma was no more.

So don’t drink and mop, kids. The curry stains will play upon your mind forever.