This article is taken from the November 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
A city beautiful, adamant and grey. So spoke Sir Laurence Olivier narrating the documentary A Queen is Crowned. Olivier was referring to Edinburgh, but the appellation might be equally ascribed to its northern neighbour, Aberdeen. Certainly the imposing facades of Union Street, sweeping along with sober uniformity, appear to be carved of granite and cast in nickel.
Granted status as a royal burgh by King David I, the city acquired a university in 1495. Having for centuries been a place of learning, the discovery of black gold in 1969 displaced the traditional industries of textiles and fishing and transformed Aberdeen into a seat of earning as Europe’s offshore exploration capital as wealth, and wealth seekers, flowed in with the oil.
My old friend Alistair Snowie invited me up to Aberdeen to attend the Clydesdale Horse Show, where his company, Gogar Services Ltd, lavishes a great deal of time and money to promote that once endangered breed. No one knows as many people as Alistair, and there are few people that one should know whom he does not. One of his favourite haunts when up in Aberdeen is a place called Al Fresco, a family run foodery on Bon-Accord Street that provides Italian cuisine “reminiscent of Venice” to the citizens of the granite city. It did not take me long to work out why Alistair enjoys it so much.
Al Fresco’s proprietor Michael, and his manager, Pedro, do a magnificent job in making their guests feel welcome, not least by the very hospitable malt whisky warmer that greeted our arrival that wet night at the beginning of autumn.
For Al Fresco, nothing is too much trouble and no dish presented without the most considerable care. The décor is classic without being clichéd, the atmosphere vibrant without too many noisy distractions, and the service swift and deft. Al Fresco smuggles Mediterranean home cooking past the Pillars of Hercules, around the Bay of Biscay, through the English Channel and up to the Silver City on the North Sea. It is well worth a visit to appreciate the warmth of southern hospitality as you seek refuge from any northern chill.
Yet there is much more amongst those great grey avenues than gastronomy. Aberdeen’s reputation for liveliness dates back to Dick Donald and the Donald family who did more than anyone to light up local life after dark.
In the city’s Palladian art gallery, erected at the height of Victoria’s imperium, the aesthete will find Monet’s “La Falaise á Fécamp” and Sisley’s “Les Bords du Loing” jostling for light with Glasgow street scenes by Joan Eardley.
To the north, St Machar’s High Kirk stands custodian to the mortal remains of William Wallace, or at least those of his bones which King Edward I sent to the Highlands as a warning. For those searching for more competitive pursuits, both the Royal Aberdeen and Trump International golf clubs offer more than a good walk spoiled. There you may discover The Donald, swinging an iron on one of his pristine fairways.
Of course, a visit to Aberdeen would not be complete, like any visit to Scotland, without stopping off for a sharpener at a local distillery. The nearest, and oldest, is Glen Garioch but there are several others. The man in the know, and another pal of Alistair Snowie, is Ian “the nose” MacMillan, one of Scotland’s foremost master blenders and the man for a dram.
Each year, Alistair and Ian lead a small group of friends on a tasting tour. A seat on that tour is more select than a ticket on Air Force One. And the toast of their tour party, like the toast of Aberdeen, is eloquent of friendship, felicity and fun: Happy to meet. Sorry to part. Happy to meet again.
