EATING OUT AND DRINK

TO the west end of Glasgow, or rather Finnieston, which is the new west end anyway, where the troops are already squeezed on to barstools, cracking jokes and downing pints when I arrive. Banter, banter, slag, slag, chortle, chortle.

Yes, I am late. Yes, there’s something about these straight-from-the-office Friday nights out that make them start at a gallop. No, no beer for me, I’m working tomorrow.

OK, let’s try that funky Mexican food that they boldly claim is not like any Mexican food we may have ever had before – in Glasgow anyway.

But wait, hang on, we’re getting directed to a ropey little table in the shadow of the bar in that pub no man’s land that may be fine for my skinny companions but is never comfortable for a plump man in a tight M&S suit. Yes, that would be me.

There’s a lushly upholstered and completely empty booth over there at the back of the bar. Please … can we sit there? Pretty please?

Yes, says the smiley, cheery waitress after detouring across the bar to check with someone boss-like near that half-kitchen to the side of this former old geezer’s pub – now brought back to life as a trendy young geezer’s pub. With Mexican food. As I may have mentioned.

There’s now a good bit of banter about Kevin’s tweed jacket having been bought from the House of Bruar, no less, and, yes, Tony and Mick are as surprised as I am to learn that the House of Bruar is also apparently the No1 purveyor of all those yellow and orange toff cords that you see everywhere in the country, but never in the Glasgow shops.

We’re not paying much attention to the menu right now, though this could be also be because, attractive as this pub is, it’s bloody dark. And therefore almost impossible to make out the small print. And it’s all small print on the menu. And yes, I do have my specs on.

When we do drag ourselves away from the Glesga banter and look down at the menu, it’s so packed with unfamiliar items that for a whole moment, maybe even two, there’s no sound but the sucking of pints and the scanning of unfamiliar culinary terms.

There are certainly no pies and no peas. Not even Mexican ones. Charred pumpkin, spiced puffed corn, chocolate mole … What? All of that on one taco?

Tempura cauliflower, Apache beer cheese, pickled pink onion. On a single taco, too. A soft one at that.

We’ll have a Baja cod, pomegranate salsa, chipotle cream taco please. And a spit-roast Apache chicken, white onion and salsa cream taco too. A Yucatan spiced langoustine, the one with the coconut cream. A baked barbacoa beef, oh, and a couple of portions of those crunchy Tabasco wings. Maybe a few of the Tijuana street fries with roasted cumin and, er, that will do us.

And it does do us, as we slurp and slip and dip and slide our way through the dishes.

At one point my cod taco – slightly sour, randomly spicy yet not really tasting of anything in particular – dumps something hot and wet on my trousers. In this light I can’t see what it is, but the beauty of a 95 per cent plastic suit is it wipes dry.

We pretty much eat it all, or what we can see anyway, almost clearing the wooden boards the tacos are served on.

The fries are a bit soggy, the tacos have a blunderbussy feel to them, the flavours far more interesting in print than on the tongue. But nobody says there was anything wrong with the food at all, although nor does anybody suggest it was the best taco they have ever had.

But it’s not entirely smoke and mirrors in here. Yes, it is a little bit gimmicky but it’s much better than bar food used to be.

And quite a lot more fun.

My cod taco – slightly sour, spicy yet not really tasting of anything – dumps something hot and wet on my suit trousers

PHOTOGRAPH: COLIN MEARNS The Duchess of Argyle has been transformed from a one-time old man’s pub to a young man’s pub … with Mexican food