Did you know that the vanilla pod grows on an orchid? I had no clue until we stumbled into the orchid house at the Glasgow Botanic Gardens and saw them for ourselves. Quite plain things they were, straggly grey pods hidden behind the flamingo-like glories of its sister breeds. Still, they’re the only orchids which have a popular flavour of ice cream named after them so I guess they’ve still doing okay for themselves.
A small yellowing sign explained that vanilla flavouring is mostly produced synthetically from wood pulp these days, which is the last horrifying discovery that will put me off cheap vanilla ice cream forever. What could be more heavenly than a thick mix of cream, sugar and the nectar from an orchid pod? And what could be further removed from that than a tub of commercially produced ice cream - a thick combination of vegetable oils, fatty acid emulsifiers and sugar, whipped up with air, stabilised with seaweed extract and then flavoured with extract of wood pulp?
Seeing vanilla growing fresh in the Botanic Gardens resonated nicely with our lunch at The Ubiquitous Chip, a Glaswegian institution on Ashton Lane where we were seated in a glass-roofed courtyard festooned with tropical plants and vines, and where we were served a splendid starter of scallops with black pudding sauce, all drizzled with a light vanilla oil. I think of vanilla as a sweet and flowery scent, but here it added a rounded earthiness which complemented the delicate scallops perfectly. And what wonderful scallops too: their fat roe sweet, soft and caramelised, the bodies so lightly cooked as to be nicely moist inside, the fishy cousins of a chocolate truffle. I would only have changed the black pudding sauce. Less a sauce and more a streak of cat vomit, it tasted lovely but did nothing for the eye. A nice crispy bit of black pudding might have varied the textures a bit too.
The Ubiquitous Chip has been around since the 1970s and proudly claims to have changed Glaswegian eating habits forever, championing good and local ingredients at a time when processed foods and white carbs were the fashion. Crucially, it also once claimed to be the only restaurant in Scotland not to serve chips, although this is one political stance they have abandoned - as the platters of fish and chips so popular on table 103 demonstrated.
The Chip has also served as a backdrop to my boyfriend’s life: his parents dined here when they were courting, he brought them back to celebrate his graduation, and here we were again for a Bank Holiday lunch to celebrate his new job.
A celebration must mean only one foodstuff: steak. The up-market Argentinian chains may have captured the London market with their romantic tales of gauchos herding steers across the pampas, but in Scotland they still know that the best steaks come from the Angus breeds plodding around the soggy Highlands. My rare Aberdeen angus fillet was seared and peppery on the outside and soft and almost mousse-like inside. Paul took his medium, which came thiner, tougher and flavoured throughout with black pepper. We each preferred our own, which is precisely as it should be.
Pudding was a disappointment. Brown bread ice-cream has been a classic since lucky school boys took one last tea at Gunters before going up to boarding school, but The Chip’s house version, Caledonian oatmeal ice-cream, hit very far wide of the mark. The little crumby nuggets should have been burned and sweet – a sort of poor man’s praline, a decadent surprise cutting through the blandness of the cream – but the oatmeal here was merely bland and chewy, surprising in the same way one might feel upon finding a fly in the jam.
The lemon and rosemary pudding – a tight little ball of sticky sponge rich with egg yolks and sugar – might have saved the day, had it not been for the complete and utter lack of any rosemary in the dish. The best part of pudding thus proved to be a single ginger crisp served on the side, which was so fabulously rich and toasty I would order the entire dessert again just to taste it.
I usually come away from a restaurant determined to try making at least one of the dishes on the menu, but I think in this case I’ll go off piste and try inventing my own oaty ice cream, inspired by The Chip but based on something closer to Gunters. My aim was to create a real, thick and delicious oaty ice cream. Elevated from the bland with some extract of orchid, and as bereft of wood pulp, chewy oatmeal and seaweed extract as anything I’ve ever made.
Mix around two cups of Scottish rolled oats with one cup of brown sugar and a cup of ground almonds, lay them out on a lined baking tray and place under a hot grill until golden. I found they needed a lot of mixing to get them evenly brown.
Once the oats have started to cool, whisk up three eggs whites until stiff and then turn into a glossy meringue by gradually adding half cup of ordinary sugar (I use unrefined and unbleached castor, but you can consult your own conscience). Set aside and whip up a cup and three quarters of double cream, whisk in the egg yolks and a few drops of vanilla extract (not essense or flavouring or anything else bashed out of wood pulp – see above), then fold the cream into the meringue along with the oats.
Place in an ice cream maker and churn ... or if you don’t have an ice cream maker, stick in a tub and freeze until solid. The egg whites do most of the hard work for you but it won’t be quite so nice.
The verdict? Really quite splendid, and so much nuttier and more flavoursome than that of The Ubiquitous Chip.
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