THE COUNTRYMAN
Guy Grieve plays the gracious host to chefs and journalists alike
Aperk of running our business is that we get visits from an interesting variety of people. A couple of years ago on a cold, clear day in February I was hurtling towards a remote scallop ground in Loch Sunart. At that time I was fishing from a six metre RIB, the smallest registered fishing boat in Scotland. To my right and braced against the biting wind was New Zealand-born Marcus Veberne, head chef at Roast restaurant in Borough Market in East London. To my left was his glamorous Russian girlfriend Masha.
Progress was fast and we were completely unprotected from the biting wind and spray. ‘Is Masha alright?’ I shouted to Marcus. She had no hat and was wearing only a thin jacket. He didn’t even look over at her. ‘Mate, she’s from Northern Russia. This is a heat wave to her!’
She gave me a cheeky wink before effortlessly lighting her cigarette, even though we were skimming across the water at 30 knots.
Since t hen Marcus and Masha have got married and returned to Mull a number of times, once bringing Marcus’s entire staff with him. After coming out on the boat (thankfully by this time we were fishing from Helanda) the six members of his kitchen joined us to cook scallops on the barbecue. For them, plucked from busy central London, bundled into a minibus and driven 600 miles to the north of Scotland, it must have been quite a contrast.
We’ve had visits from many inspiring people, and although they come from almost every walk of gastronomic life, all are united by a few profound beliefs. First of these is a belief in truth, and they are motivated to make the long and sometimes rather difficult journey to our island because they want to see a genuine artisan fishing operation. And this is precisely what they find. A wooden pier, an old school boat and a team that loves the sea. They also come to experience the pure and startlingly
beautiful marine environment of the Hebrides where we fish our prized king scallops. They share our belief that this environment needs to be protected and stewarded so that it can continue to create such immaculate produce.
More recently we had a visit from an impressive trio of Germans. We had been chosen to be the cover story of Lufthansa magazine, and a journalist and photographer arrived to tell the story. Once again it was winter and cold. The photographer, looking like a latter-day Leni Riefenstahl but with slightly more acceptable politics, pulled on a wetsuit as we steamed out to the grounds. I mentioned that the water temperature was at 4 degrees and she might find it a bit cold. She threw her head back and laughed before asking me to assist with pulling a wetsuit boot onto a shapely foot. A short time later we reached the remote kelp-strewn reefs where I planned to dive. As we entered the water she calmly said, ‘I think you are going to have to pull me down until I pass thirteen metres and lose buoyancy. I do not have quite enough weight with me.’
I duly did this as we descended into the frigid depths. Once we’d passed buoyancy she slipped away like a fish, looking perfectly at ease within the Wagnerian gloom of the underwater forest. The dive lasted forty minutes and she held her own even as the tide began to run. Once back at the surface she kept taking pictures as the boat approached, then handed her camera up. ‘Yes, now I am cold,’ she announced. There were no chattering teeth or anything so undignified. ‘I will sit beside the stove to warm.’
Just a week ago we had our biggest visit to date when twelve French trainee chefs descended upon us. Organised by the French Institute in Edinburgh, they had already visited Glengorm Estate to sample their immaculate Highland beef, and then Isle of Mull Cheese to see their cheese-making in action. This time it was beyond us to take them out fishing, but they were still keen to see the boat, and as I nursed Helanda alongside I could see the pontoon was starting to sink under their combined weight as they huddled close together in order to get a view into the boat. They had come from Brittany and even though communication was limited we immediately hit it off. United in appreciation of the great bounty of the sea, they exclaimed with excitement over ‘le St Jacques’ and asked whether they’d be able to cook some. ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, relishing the prospect of surprising Juliet with the delegation.
I arrived at the house with a wicked tingle of anticipation. ‘Jules – we’ve got a few people over!’ She and our younger son Luke arrived at the front door, greeting the young chefs’ tutor and shaking hands. ‘Come on in,’ Juliet said, about to close the door when she realised there was another person. And then another, and another, and another. She and Luke stood shaking hands like some kind of formal reception committee, repeating ‘Hello’, ‘ Bonjour’, ‘Bonsoir’, nodding and smiling and sending me bemused glances in between.
Once the greetings were finally finished I gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Well there it is. Only two rings on the cooker work, but knock yourselves out!’ And the culinary hoard immediately sprang into action. Juliet and Luke looked on in a kind of happy shock as our small kitchen was transformed into a hive of activity, the twelve chefs working with surprising co-ordination given the tiny space. Choruses of ‘Oui Chef!’ rang out over the sound of much frenetic chopping and within minutes the young chefs were handing out plates of delicious morsels, Juliet and Luke and I accepting these gifts as we became guests in our own house.
‘We descended into the frigid depths and she slipped away like a fish’