The Herald - The Herald Magazine
Ron Mackenna
LET’S fast forward past the unpacking, the instruction-poring over, the loud groan when we realise the main course is as-yet-uncooked duck, the tweaking and plating and on, again, into the first course. A sourdough loaf just warmed in the oven, marmite-butter with an ooh-that’s unusual aftertaste and already a little bit of theatre.
Lids are slowly being unscrewed from two anodised and shoe polish-shaped tins…twist, twist, twist…revealing a jewellike portrait of glistening Exmoor caviar, tiny squirts of posh mayo, a translucent membrane made, possibly, impossibly even, from grapefruit then sweet juicy crab bursting with flavour underneath.
Boom, the tins are emptied in a succession of breezy teaspoonfuls. And we move on.
More art, another feast for the eyes, a wafer of translucent paper under a magnificent duck parfait, layered, coloured in duns and dapples, crimson fillets of rhubarb brazenly razor cut across the grain, micro blobs of macro flavours popping, an actual just-made-in-Glasgow today brioche too.
It’s all so luxurious, so satisfying. Awaiting are tiny handmade pasta (just seven per person) to be draped in a truffle and asparagus sauce that slowly fills the bowl and has us nodding at how brilliantly deep, yet almost mayonnaisely tangy the whole thing is, though was it meant to be a soup?
And now we’re unwrapping parchment paper parcels pulled from the oven, their crisped edges springing back to reveal cod fillets, crusted with hazelnut and lemon… whoa…hang on.
You don’t really think it happened like this?
Springing from box to table in a magical Mary Michelin-star Poppins moment, us all chim-chim-charrooing along. Like hell it does.
It’s check-how-long this-takes, set the phone timer-to-that. Hey, we’re running out of pans and dishes. Wait, make-it-look-likeit’s-supposed-to on the plate. Now sit down and eat. Get up and check the next course.
Here’s what they don’t tell you in this Michelin-star home movie: if you really, really want to enjoy this glorious food you actually, genuinely, need to hire someone to put it all together while you sit and soak up the ambience.
Anyway, let’s air brush over the fafforama and cut to the cod. Yes, we follow the instructions to the very second. No, it is definitely not ready when it is supposed to be. Yes, it gets rewrapped and blasted in the oven again.
And at the re-unveiling of the parchment? Hey, lovely, a tart Verjus sauce to sprinkle round those pearl white flakes, that deep herby crust pile-driving in the sensations, and a subtle salty edge from the kale.
It’s an important moment in this meal: because from here on in things go very, very £185 home-delivery pear-shaped wrong.
The fifth course then. Aka La Debacle. Honestly? As soon as the duck was pulled from its wrapping, perfectly butchered as it was, I knew we were in for a rough ride. Pop into a lightly oiled pan at medium heat, apply a little pressure and wait for skin to crisp, the instructions cheerily read.
Yeah, right. Maybe in a professional kitchen.
A minute on the other side, it continues. Spoon over honey, oven for two minutes, rest for four (keep up) then it’s ready. Really? Not a chance.
It’s not crisp. It’s so uncooked it quacks when I go near it, and back in it goes again. We actually enjoy the rest of the dish, the chocolate-smooth confit duck rolls,
punchy wild leek and garlic, spiced jus separately from the breast. Which remains disappointing throughout.
There’s a supplementary course of a Tamworth cheese tart (fiver extra) which looks pretty, tastes tangy but the pastry is just damp and limp. At least fun-filled chunks of glittery honeycomb, biscuitty sprinkles, bitter lemon droplets turn an effervescent yoghurt dessert into a success.
As for Michelin magic at home? Lorna McNee and her staff’s brilliance is obvious. They know what they’re doing in the kitchen but do we?