Most of us who grew up in the 1950s had pretty Spartan childhoods. Post-war austerity, including food rationing, meant there was little scope for what, at the time, would have been considered luxuries.

For we youngsters (cue violins), sweets and biscuits were rarities, which possibly explains why many of us still have our own teeth well into our eighth decade. Despite the comparatively hard post-war years, I don’t recall any of us going hungry. Our mothers (this was before males colonised kitchens) were immensely resourceful with the limited ingredients available to them.

Although my father was no great loss to the Beechgrove Garden, our back garden was a supplementary source of fresh vegetables and fruit for jam making. He would have considered new-fangled patios and decking wasteful of both space and time.

Homemade dishes, including mince and tatties, stovies and oatcakes were the order of the day. A pan of Scotch broth lasted three days. Sure, it was plain fare, but we still thrived and it was a rarity for any of us to be ill. My primary school had an incentive scheme that allowed a class to leave 30 minutes early on a Friday if it had achieved 100% attendance that week. As I recall it, most classes were able to claim their slightly extended weekend. I doubt if that would be the case today.

Back then, eating was strictly functional, the main purpose being to keep you alive and well. Being palatable and/or digestible was a bonus. Eating out and eating purely for pleasure were rarely part of the equation.

My formative years ingrained in me suspicion of the modern obsession with food and eating out, particularly what has come to be described as “fine dining”. While I have little appetite for upmarket eateries, my hand was recently forced by the generous gift of a voucher for one such establishment.

Doing my homework, I discovered it was the proud possessor of those AA and Michelin thingies, though there was little evidence they could fix my car or change the tyres. Don’t get me wrong, we had a perfectly agreeable evening. The surroundings were comfortable, the ambience was relaxed and the staff couldn’t have been more pleasant.

The food wasn’t what I’m used to (you can take the boy out of Aberdeen and all that), but I could see it had been prepared and presented with great care and precision. Yet, something left a bitter taste in the mouth. On reflection, it was probably the cost.

Yes, yes, I buy into the reasoning about quality ingredients, staff wages, overheads and the rest, but the pricing bordered on the obscene. Looking around, I was taken aback by how young our fellow diners were. On either side were two youngish couples both of whom had chosen taster menus and accompanying wines for each course.

A surreptitious check of the menu revealed a cost not far shy of £200 for each diner. I just about choked on my amuse bouche. That’s the equivalent of what a pensioner lives on for a couple of weeks. Sorry, no matter how special the atmosphere and food, nothing justifies that sort of pricing.

I wouldn’t call it a rip-off, but give me a day or two and I’ll come up with something else. The fact that high-end restaurants are thriving, underlines the growing gulf between the rich and poor in present day Scotland.

Any teacher will tell you increasing numbers of children are coming hungry to school. As the cost of living soars, it will become increasingly difficult for families on the bread line to adequately feed their children.

I won’t be returning any time soon, but there will be no shortage of those well enough heeled to fork out for upmarket eateries and no doubt toast the Chancellor’s health. It’s time for a 20% levelling-up levy on restaurant bills above say, £200. If you can afford £100 for a bottle of wine, you can spare a few quid to feed a hungry bairn.

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