REMEMBERING IT’S a British restaurant we’re talking about, just about the nicest thing I can say is that nobody had the nerve to add the so-called “service charge” to my bill; more on that later, but this evening I had what was easily the most disappointing experience of my three weeks to date in the United Kingdom: and the unacceptable nature of that experience is based directly on the standards set by the same establishment when last I ate in it in 2008.

If superficial, patronising “service” is your thing — coupled with a “fine” dining experience that barely lasts longer than a visit to McDonald’s for a Big Mac and fries to go — then the dining room at the Port Charlotte Hotel, Islay, is probably right up your street; most people aren’t interested in anything of the kind, of course, but that is precisely the experience dished up with cavalier cluelessness at this restaurant tonight.

Taking a step back, when I was last in Britain — in 2008, with my ex-wife — we ate at this restaurant twice, on consecutive nights; service was crisp, attentive, unobtrusive and unbelievably sincere, and the maître d’, a Welsh gentleman called Glenn (whose surname I can’t recall), would not have been out of place in any way in some of London’s very best restaurants.

Those two dinners (which — despite the fact we’ve been separated for years — we still reminisce about occasionally, as they were that good) entailed three courses for two people, plus alcohol, on both nights, for a total of £200: not £200 per person for two nights, but £200 in total. And the food was like a roll call of Islay’s and Scotland’s finest premium product: scallops, salmon, Argyll beef, local wild venison…and on it went.

And of course, unimpeachably faultless service by Glenn.

When I was booking this particular trip to Britain, I was desperate to include a return to Islay; partly to visit my favourite distilleries, and to get some more pictures of this pristine island in the Hebrides; but it is no exaggeration to suggest the restaurant at the Port Charlotte Hotel was every bit an attraction of returning to the island as anything else.

And it wasn’t worth the bother or the expense.

Yesterday afternoon — during a meandering drive — I stopped at the Port Charlotte Hotel to enquire about a reservation. They were fully booked last night, I was told. They were fully booked tonight, too. But wait! Seeing it would just be me, I could be “squeezed in” at 6.30pm. No later. They really were very busy, I was told, and this was the only time eating there would be possible.

What was my name? Yale, I said. That’s my first name, I said, and was acknowledged. This detail is relevant later.

Because Port Charlotte is 18 miles from Bowmore, where I’m staying, I inquired about getting a taxi (so I could have a few drinks) and was astonished to learn this would cost at least £25 each way: so I drove, happy not to drink. This detail is also relevant later.

I also looked at getting a bus one way (yes, there is one) and a taxi back, but the bus left Bowmore at 5pm and would leave me twiddling my thumbs for over an hour until my super-busy table was available, cleaned and reset for me…a £3 bus fare (no problem) would still leave the transport costs for the night at about £30: enough to buy one of my kids something to take back to Australia. So I drove.

Arriving at 6.35pm, I was greeted by the woman (who I took to be the manager) who took my reservation yesterday: very short, dark hair, glasses, stocky build. “Hello, Mr Yale!” she cried.

“Um…that’s my first name. I’m not Mr Yale, I’m just Yale,” I said. I resisted the urge to remind her I’d told her that yesterday, too. With the exception of a couple of valued friends who call me that, I detest being called “Mr Yale” — especially if I’ve gently explained someone’s error.

Undeterred, I was shown to my table in a near-empty dining room. Another staff member — who was at reception when I arrived, and should have heard the conversation about my name — greeted me anew. “Welcome, Mr Yale,” she said, handing me the menu. “Would you like something to drink?”

I ordered a ginger beer. Would I like ice in that? No thanks, I said…but when a glass of flat, urine-coloured liquid arrived, I reflected that it might have been nice to have been told the ginger beer wasn’t refrigerated when I was asked if I wanted ice with it.

The woman who’d taken my reservation, and got my name wrong, came to my table. “Oh, you’re not drinking wine?” she said in a deflated tone. The disappointment was palpable; one could almost hear the mental note being made that there wasn’t going to be a reasonable alcohol spend from my table. Whatever. In any case, the next time I saw her was when I went to pay (which wasn’t that much later, but bear with me on this).

I ordered: a delicious-sounding fish chowder as an entree; venison as a main. Leave the idea of dessert with me for now, I smiled at the waitress who took my order, intending (at that point) to order a third course.

But two minutes after I’d ordered, the entree arrived; it was indeed delicious, to be sure — generous amounts of fresh seafood in a tomato and red pepper broth — but I get uneasy in “fine” restaurants that deliver food within a couple of minutes of ordering it. Was it sitting in a bain marie (or worse, a microwave) and/or is there a mad stampede to get me off the premises underway by force-feeding me?

With a spoonful or two of chowder to go, I became aware of a waitress lurking at a workstation just behind my table; the instant the spoon went down in the empty bowl, she spun around and feigned surprise at seeing it. “Oh, you’re finished!” she exclaimed. “I’ll just clear that away for you.” Which she did.

Not more than three or four minutes later, the main course arrived. Again, to be fair, it was excellent, although the portion of venison was very small; but perfectly cooked with braised vegetables, potato mash, juniper berries that had been soaked in something to swell them, and a delicious jus. It really was very good.

Once again — with a bite or two to go — the same waitress materialised at the workstation behind me, pretending to be busy with something, and again — the instant the cutlery hit the plate — a rerun of the charade of fake surprise at seeing me finished was played out. “Will you have a dessert?” she asked.

She could bring the menu, I told her, but by this time — 7.04pm, less than half an hour after I sat down — I was pissed off and had no intention whatsoever of spending another penny. I looked at the menu: it had been printed on a sheet of paper, crooked, and placed inside a typical hospitality industry menu folder: fine, but closer inspection revealed several of these had obviously been printed on the same sheet of paper, for it had been cut (jaggedly) with scissors and ripped at one side in a sloppy effort at getting more than one menu from a sheet of paper. It’s a small detail but a telling one. Standards? Not here, clearly. Not any more.

There’s one lemon tart I didn’t order: with excellent reason, in my view.

I picked up my stuff and met the waitress, who had already printed my bill, at the reception area. “How was everything?” she asked.

“Fine,” I snapped.

The manager, who’d taken my reservation, appeared and handed me something I’d left at my table, but even so…”How was everything?” she asked.

“Fine!” I barked morosely. Nothing more was said. If either of them realised I was almightily displeased by the treatment I had received, they certainly didn’t care.

What’s the point of saying anything? When I made the reservation I’d already been given a bucket of excuses about how COVID had put them under such pressure they only had the same menu in the dining room and the public bar, that they were short staffed, that they were “super busy” (but could squeeze me into a near-empty dining room…), and other pre-emptive butt-covering rhetoric: these people clearly had answers for everything, and if they couldn’t see they had an angry customer on their hands, then perhaps they didn’t know as much about what they were doing as they thought they did.

And so, 37 minutes after it began, the dining experience I had waited 14 years to enjoy at the Port Charlotte Hotel was at its end.

This time, I’ll never go back.

The simple fact is that no paying customer wants to be treated like cattle, or shanghaied out of the way in readiness for “high value customers” whose supposed arrival is imminent. If it’s good enough to take the booking (and, not to put too fine a point on it, the customer’s money), it’s good enough to provide an experience worthy of the custom.

Even in the absence of a sizeable spend on booze, I would have ordered dessert; I would have ordered another drink; I may have ordered something else (such as a cheese plate); I may have stayed later and moved into the bar area; I may have “noticed” the omission of the service charge…in short, I was probably worth at least another £20 (and probably more) even though I wasn’t drinking. But never mind that.

I’m just glad I didn’t spend £30 on transport (and probably at least another £10 on a drink, even if it proved to be the first and last): it’s all well and good to put above average to very good food on the table, but when it’s made this obvious you simply aren’t welcome, the £37 this meal cost was £37 more than it was worth.

I have spent well over a decade directing everyone I know who’s travelled to Scotland to this restaurant, enticing them with rave reviews of the 2008 experience, and I know of quite a few who acted on the advice before the pandemic; now, I will tell anyone I know who’s going to Islay not to go to the Port Charlotte Hotel under any circumstances — and why.

I could write to the hotel to complain, but I have no doubt any such missive would be intercepted by the stocky, dark-haired manager with glasses, expertly despatched to the rubbish bin — real or virtual — and arses would be covered while whoever owns the place remains unaware of the way his or her customers are treated by staff.

So this will have to do: don’t go to the Port Charlotte Hotel on Islay.

I’ve been lavish in my praise on this trip when it’s been warranted and measured in my criticism at other times, but this is one “fine dining” experience that deserves only to be avoided altogether.

When I asked after him, I was told Glenn had retired. If I owned this joint I’d be begging for him to come back: if tonight is any guide, there won’t be a business left to run before long unless something is done to fix up its act.