The other day I found myself at the grand opening of the Cameron Grill. The swish new restaurant at the under-refurbishment De Vere Cameron House.
It was a very fancy affair – the great and good of Scotland were all there (well Gavin Hastings and Viv Lumsden anyway).
It’s impressive, I’ll give it that. All dark and sooty looking with great hunks of furniture. There’s a huge meat fridge with a glass wall looking on to the dining room giving diners a full view of bovine carcasses on meathooks being hacked to bits by a man in chainmail – very macho.
In fact the whole shooting match was macho, from the tattooed drummers laid on as entertainment to the exhortions to “drink, drink”.
It did make me wonder, though, where they kept the rest of the meat – the less decorative and butch stuff. Perhaps things with eyes, bulletholes and entrails because there was more than cow on the menu?
Actually they didn’t do menu last week – it wasn’t so much a moveable feast but a feastable move. Every corner had different delicacies on offer. Most of them were fabulous, quirky and delicious.
Fish and chips – three delicate slivers of golden fried pototo with a couple of elegant, succulent morcels of fish served in a poke of paper by a girl with an usher’s tray round her neck.
Haggis, neeps and tatties in a dainty ramekin.
The most mouthwatering slices of roast beef.
A single, perfect seared scallop in its shell.
The only duffer was the coq au vin served in a mini pie (mutton, Glesca style) case. The pastry was tough and the filling a little sloppy for elegance. Remember this lot was being scoffed on the hoof with a glass in the other fist.
Ok, it was, therefore a little naughty, when chatting aimlessly with the London PR type who wondered what I was doing there to tell her they were simply devine.
How big was my inner snigger when she had to stop looking down her nose at me and start peering at the splot of gravy on her expensive bosom?
Anyhow, Cameron Grill. The Americans will love it, which, I suppose, is the point.
But, as for standing up to eat, I’ll wager that was a man’s idea. That’ll be a man who’s never stood up all evening in heels and tried not to spill stuff down his frock. Next time, let the ladies know: leave your sitting down shoes at home and bring a bib.