Inver, Loch Fyne: This is modern Scottish food at its best

It seems almost unfair to review a place as beautiful as Inver. They could have served me gruel on toast and I’d have likely left happy as a clam, desperately raving about how wonderful it was. Luckily, the food was just as good as the location. It’s the kind of remote, gastronomically focused getaway that acts as catnip to burnt-out city-siders who see rural life as a romanticised amalgamation of wonderful views, rambling walks and meals made primarily from produce sourced in the garden, or maybe the local goat slaughtered out back. By city-siders I mean me, who has a tri-yearly fantasy of moving to some rolling green hillside, rearing sheep and cooking hearty, wholesome fare in my Farrow and Ball-painted kitchen (I blame Julius Roberts of TellTaleFood).

While you’re now probably familiar with Inver, thanks to hordes of breathless Brits crossing back over the border and waxing lyrical about the place, for those who are unaware; this is a modern Scottish restaurant and accompanying cabins (bothies, as they call them) found on the banks of Loch Fyne. The drive from Glasgow feels like slowly slinking away to another world – ochre trees line rolling hills that give way to dusky lochs before opening up to boulder-strewn vallies. I don’t need to promote the beauty of the highlands though – everyone knows that. This, however, is a particularly lovely pocket. Arriving at Inver feels like completing your journey to the ends of the Earth – you are truly, magically, removed from modern life.

Owned and operated by Pam Brunton in the kitchen and her partner Rob Latimer front of house, it should come as no surprise that the duo are alumni of Noma in Copenhagen. There are whiffs of Rene Redzepi’s modernised Nordic cuisine here. Fitting, when you consider the parallels between Scandinavia and Scotland’s countryside and coastline. But make no mistake: this is not Noma-takes-Scotland. This is Brunton and Latimer’s own approach to what Scottish food is. And phew… it’s marvellous.

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While there is an a la carte menu on offer, this is the kind of place where you really want to put yourself in the hands of the chef. We enthusiastically threw ourselves into Brunton’s creation for the evening. Comprising five courses, with snacks at the beginning and the option for an additional cheese add-on, this is not a meandering 10-course meal that keeps you shackled to your seat for three hours. Instead, it is a concise reflection of the surroundings and celebration of wonderful Scottish ingredients.

Snacks were served in the bar area (more on that later) and unsurprisingly outshone their deceptively simple menu descriptions. Cockles were served in their shell, accompanied by a fennel and lime gel that brought a bracing whack of mouthwatering acidity. Raw vegetables were dressed with lemon juice and paired with a strikingly moreish miso and peanut sauce that I’d quite like to bottle and take home with me, thanks. This was a fitting introduction to what was about to come; a meal that showed a thorough understanding of flavours and how to best utilise them in simply effective ways to truly make a dish shine.

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This concept was perhaps personified in the first formal course: a squash broth with cumin butter. This silken, lightweight liquid managed to impeccably concentrate the sweet, nutty, vaguely smoky tones of a squash, the flavour shining through in a manner that felt incongruous to the smooth broth. The smartest plate of the meal, however, was simultaneously the most surprising. Listed on the menu as “hazelnut and brown bread, girolles and grapes”, it was, in fact, a punchy, cold soup not dissimilar to skordalia or ajo blanco, topped with grapes, hazelnuts, girolles and a brown bread crisp. The soup itself was made almost spicy by a healthy dose of garlic, and mingled impeccably with the toppings to create a dish that was one of the most beguiling things I have eaten in recent memory.

The fish (gurnard, cured and served with apple and turnip) and lamb (perfectly pink and paired with even more squash and Georgian spices) were good but firmly outperformed by the spectacular earlier courses. Dessert was my only sticking point. The rice pudding failed to capture the subtleties of the fig leaf – an enormous shame, given that the accompanying burnt honey ice cream was such a triumph.

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Service was…. fine. The staff were perfectly friendly and polite but lacked the kind of welcoming warmth that is especially wanted when you’re staying somewhere. We wandered over from our accommodation a little early for our meal, hoping to have a drink in the bar before dinner, preferring to soak up the environment of the main building than sit in the solitude of our (lovely) cabin. We perched in a quiet corner and were made to feel almost uncomfortable for showing up early, as if we had breached some unspoken rule around timing. It was a brief but slightly odd experience that left a lingering undertone to the rest of the evening.

Maybe we visited on an off evening. Or perhaps it’s a leftover formality from the stilted interactions Covid has imposed on us. It could have just been that we were a bit too excited to lap up every last moment of this wonderful place. But can you blame us?! It’s funny how service can have such an impact on your stay and how a vibe can permeate the rest of your evening. Nevertheless, most of this was almost forgotten by the time we’d toddled back to our room with a whisky, and certainly forgiven when the breakfast basket was delivered the next morning – I struggle to think of a better morning meal in recent memory than this one, devouring a glorious cheese and onion pastry from bed with sweeping views of the loch. It was almost enough to trigger another of my rural life fantasies, but this time a little more blonde wood than Farrow and Ball.