Acharacle Hotel, Argyll, Scotland
I’m currently in Western Scotland with the good Dr. Timothy Davies for a long weekend of exploring, gaping (at scenery), wine-quaffing and attempted unwinding. Many years ago, Tim and I wrote our chemistry PhDs in Edinburgh. We shared a lab, innumerable lewd nights out, and bonded for life. This trip is also something of a reconnaissance mission for me. When I run out of reasons to stay in Berlin, I may move to this part of the world, acquire the space I crave, and become the Tweed-wearing village oddball that I’m probably destined to be.
We’ve come to the Acharacle Hotel for dinner. Actually, we were here for a pint last night and I happened to notice a rear dining room with blush tablecloths, where we now find ourselves. It’s 19.30 and after a long day of activity, we need sustenance. But there’s more than just food in store. In the bar behind us, folks are setting up for open-mic night, featuring local singing sensation BB Love. Let us skip over the obvious crude jokes on the implications of this name, that would most likely be lost on the Acharachlers (surely this is what they call themselves), and instead get into this dinner.
At Tim’s recommendation, we’ve started with glasses of Orchard Pig cider. After a few too many coffees today, this is palate refreshing and enlivening. Tennents and Guinness are also available. Dining room dynamics are as follows. We have three other occupied tables with one elderly couple and one younger, and a party of thirteen non-Scots opposite me. I think the latter group must have arrived just a few minutes before us. “Very civilized”, announces one of the thirteen, misjudging the volume of his voice. He’s not wrong, as long as the enormous, mounted stag’s head and chandelier constructed from antlers do not offend your sensibilities.
I’m hoping for some true Scottish fayre. Some neeps and tatties, Cullen Skink, perhaps even a bit of haggis. There is no escaping the fact that this is going to be pub-food. The question is whether it is going to be locally produced & prepared gastro-pub food, or defrosted and boiled-in-the-bag pub food. Place your bets. I’m wondering how I’ll feel about eating a bloody chunk of venison under the disarming gaze of this grand stag’s head. I daresay I’ll prevail.
Hurrah for Cullen Skink, available as a starter and a main-course. I need look no further. Tim orders a prawn cocktail from our welcoming waitress. I know, we’re not exactly pushing the culinary envelope here, but classic dishes done well will more than meet our needs. And by these parameters, my soup is a success. It tastes so much better than it looks, contains huge chunks of toothsome potato, is substantial in white fish (that I take to be lightly-smoked haddock), and has the unmistakable cleanliness of celery. The prawn cocktail looks decidedly more appealing. A pile of jumbo prawns and salad leaves in the conventional Marie Rose sauce with a lemon wedge. Can’t argue with this. Only the accompanying sliced white bread drags this down a bit. We polish all this off in no time.
BB Love is now in full throat, rousing the locals with some heartwarming pop tunes. On my way to the gents, I’m invited to join in the revelry and perform something myself. It didn’t occur to me to bring my Diana Ross wig, so I politely decline and return to the dining room. There I’m given a wine list, and from it I pick a Sicilian red, Janare Sannio Aglianico, 2019. More on this later.
I’m struggling to find a tantalising main course. There’s neither haggis nor neep, just some uninteresting pub-staples. The only venison I can find is in the form of a burger. Tim is also looking similarly pained. At the table to my left, I see a lady tucking into fish and chips, and nearby someone else is experiencing the “Chef’s Curry”. But neither of these interests me tonight. Reluctantly, I plump for the venison burger and Tim follows suit with the house cheeseburger. I ask if mine can be cooked medium, but I’m told that this is impossible.
Burgers arrive, and I can’t say that they are good. Mine is chewy, paste-y and dense. It’s surely been extruded through a nozzle, and probably not recently. Tim’s looks passable but is also most likely from Farmfoods. Thankfully the fries are delicious. Herby, salty and crispy. Some salad provides some much-needed vegetal matter. There’s really nothing more to be said about this, we just munch down out of necessity. At the same time, our musical entertainment takes a turn for the worse. Behind us, someone is projecting pure existential pain into the mic in the form of unrecognizable song.
Back to our Sicilian red. Touch wood, it’s been a while since I’ve needed any dental surgery. Yet, after a first mouthful of this wine, the memory of waking up after having been gassed is unambiguously evoked. Tim’s assessment is no less specific….”Rougher than a fighting dog’s testicles”, he declares. Ever the poet. To be fair, the wine warms up just fine and keeps us moist through what is to come.
Throughout, we’ve had great service, so when the question of dessert is raised, I ignore my better judgement and heed that of our waitress when she dangles a “special” treacle tart. Exactly what makes it special goes unsaid, but she is so charming, I cannot resist. Yesterday we happened upon the Ardnamurchan distillery about ten miles outside Acharacle. I should have liked to have stopped off for a tasting tour, but I was driving and didn’t fancy ending up at the bottom of a loch. But now, here is my chance, at least one of their bottles is on hand. I order a glass of what I now think was the unpeated single malt.
There is nothing special about my treacle tart. I suspect it’s from Sara Lee or similar frozen food purveyor. The pastry is insipid and the filling is just sucrose sweet with no other discernible flavour. A scoop of vegan vanilla ice cream does very little to help. Still, at least the Ardnamurchan whisky is a hit. It’s got a heathery, sweet note and has some heat. This is light, first fraction whisky, which is not my preference. I need those heavier hydrocarbons. Still, it is joyful and I have a double measure, whether I paid for one or not.
This has not been a great night for the chef, but we’ve had a load of fun in the last two hours, nonetheless. Behind us, the Acharaclers are belting out en masse what must now be a ninth verse of “American Pie”. If we don’t leave soon before the whisky kicks in, we’ll be knees-up to “Come on Eileen”. Thankfully, payment is swift and painless, and we leave in high spirits to shuffle ourselves home through literal Scotch mist.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 7/10
Food & Drink quality 5/10
Service 8/10
Value for money 6/10
6.5 / 10
“Expect great service and mediocre pub-grub. Be prepared to perform.”
N.B. It turns out BB Love is named after her two favourite artistes BB King and Courtney Love.
So that’s that.
