Island delicacy is a rare reminder of hard days, limited larder options and the bravery of the tough, Hebridean men of Ness

But the piece de resistance was the main course. It was guga, or young gannet, from the cliffs of Sùla Sgeir, a rocky outcrop about 60 miles north of the Butt of Lewis. We'd been well warned that it is an acquired taste: the meat (once the oily skin has been removed) looks like duck but tastes like a cross between anchovy paste and high-strength cod liver oil; some say it's like eating boiled car oil. I enjoyed it; it tasted salty, fishy and also very gamey, due to the fact that it has been dead for about eight weeks (it's been steeping in brine for many of them). My companions, however, not so much. One said he'd made up his mind in advance he wouldn't like it because it had had so much bad press (he'd read it tasted like boiled car tyres).

The seabird, served with boiled Kerr's Pinks potatoes and a glass of milk, came to us from the recent annual cull of 2000 chicks. This dangerous, life-threatening task is undertaken by a small group of men from Ness at the northern tip of Lewis, who travel the 40 dangerous miles by sea.

Once they get there, they have to drag their boats up on to the bluffs as there is no natural harbour. As anybody who has seen Mike Day's stunning BBC documentary The Guga Hunters of Ness, or read Donald S Murray's The Guga Hunters, or Peter May's the Blackhouse will know, they have to erect rope pulleys and wooden chutes to do the job of taking the young birds from their nests, wringing their necks, then butchering, plucking, salting and stacking them to dry in the salt air for three weeks. Guga's long been a staple and a delicacy for the people of Lewis.

Its presence in Glasgow for our meal was rare, because seabirds have been protected under UK and EU law since 1954. However, the Niseach guga hunters enjoy the only exemption from the provisions of the Bird Preservation Act and are are allowed to catch 2000 chicks a year under a special Scottish Government licence, for consumption in the homes of islanders - though they are sent to the Hebridean diaspora all over the world. They're bought directly from the hunters and aren't supposed to be put on restaurant menus. Even with the restriction of a couple of thousand each season, the gannet population of Sùla Sgeir continues to grow, which could explain why neither Scottish Natural Heritage nor the RSPB have raised any objection to the hunt. On the other hand, the Scottish SPCA wants it banned and has stated that "brutalising animals in this way under the guise of tradition has no place in modern society".

All of which means that guga, as the only UK seabird that is legally allowed to be consumed by humans, and available only once a year, has added cachet. Even more so, given that at one time - according to Donald S Murray - everyone in Scotland ate seabirds. The Union of Crowns, he says, destroyed the national taste for them, because eating them was not seen as the mark of a civilised society, and they weren't consumed at Court.

But for the efforts of people like our host of the night, John Morrison, the former BBC journalist who now runs his own media company, guga might remain in obscurity. Every year he and his wife Rhoda, both from Uist, host a guga night to spread the word. John obtains the bird from a hunter in his father's village of Eoropie in Ness, and cooks it in the garage to keep the overwhelming stench at bay. It's boiled for an hour to get rid of the oil and the preserving salt.

To sample this unique menu was to get a taste of an ancient and disappearing way of life, and to be reminded of the superhuman efforts that had to be endured in order to survive the most unimaginable of dietary privations. Pity there's not more to go round; otherwise guga could easily be the new star of the local, seasonal food firmament.