As I took my seat at Mara—the latest restaurant from Links House in Dornoch, in the Highlands of Scotland—I felt sure all too familiar restrictions would face me on the printed pages of the dinner menu.

Although vegan food is thankfully much more abundant in city centre restaurants than it ever has been, it can be a challenge once you get into more rural areas, with some smaller towns across the country still looking at you with astonishment when you ask about their plant-based options.

I scan the words and letters on the menu for a ‘Ve’ without a hope in my heart. But I didn’t have to worry, as the tasting menu at Mara had exactly what I needed—plus it came with a wine flight so, I smiled as I ordered, happy in the knowledge that this was going to be a good experience.

Links House is the old manse that was once connected to the Dornoch Free Church in 1843 here in this Highland town—located about an hours drive north of Inverness. In 2013, after a lengthy renovation, Links House opened as a hotel offering stunning accommodation, and the most incredible views over the Royal Dornach golf course, onto the soft sand beach, and out to sea.

This was my first time in Dornoch and while the unique patterns of light from the sky—vivid and pink one moment and ice white the next—entranced and delighted me, I was constantly conscious of the likelihood that I’d have to forgo the majority of the food on the menu during my two-night stay and stick to a very slim vegan choice.

That first evening in Mara was a winner. The vegan options on the tasting menu were delicate and divine and we sat for hours as the wine kept flowing and the dishes kept coming. A plate of heritage tomatoes, hazelnuts, garden greens and truffle dressing burst open in my mouth while a Chilean Sauvignon Gris was splashed into my waiting wine glass. Even the dessert, often very limited on vegan menus, was divine and I savoured every taste of the chocolate and coconut mousse.

At the end of the meal the head chef, Theo Creton, appears at our table. He politely introduces himself and asks how the food was. At first, I thought this was just the chef checking everyone was happy with the dishes, but then he went on to tell me how special I am.

“We don’t get many vegans here,” he says, “and when we do they never stay for two nights.”

I was an anomaly, then. He explains that I had just eaten the only vegan dishes on the menu.

“I wouldn’t want you to eat the same meal twice,” he tells me. “So I came out to ask you what you’d like tomorrow evening.”

““I scan the words and letters on the menu for a ‘Ve’ without a hope in my heart””

I was a bit taken aback by this. I’ve never been asked what I want the head chef to cook me for dinner before. I was more used to having to feel like a burden for asking the waiting staff if they could request the chef to make my dish without the eggs or to remove the fish from the salad for me.

I once stayed in a small town in Lincolnshire where the only thing I was offered to eat for the entire time I was there were mushrooms. I’ve never eaten mushrooms on toast so many times in such a short space of time. So being asked what I would like to eat was a revelation.

Not knowing what Theo had to hand, I asked him what was possible. At that moment, it was a bit like seeing the light change in the Dornoch sky. Something altered in his expression and the light went from its regular hue to something much brighter. It was then that he began to talk about his grandmother.

“My grandmother is Burmese,” he tells me. “Of course, Myanmar now, but she’s old school, so she still refers to it as Burma. Her name is Jenny and she had to leave Burma at the age of 14. The people were given the choice to apply for British citizenship, which she did.”

What follows is a story that involves Theo’s grandmother giving up her Burmese citizenship so that she could emigrate to Britain.

“My Grandma was one of the first people to teach me how to cook,” he continues. “Whenever I walked into her kitchen there was always a really strong smell of fish sauce! Very offensive to the nostrils. Every Saturday, me and my brother would go to hers and have egg, bacon and potato pie for dinner, and pancakes in the morning!”

“Do you like curry?” he asks, “I could make you my grandmother’s Burmese curry.”

Well, I’m from Yorkshire, so of course I like curry. The thought of Theo’s Burmese grandmother’s curry—made vegan, especially for me—warmed me as much as the wine I’d just sampled. I quickly said, yes please, and, though I’d just finished dinner and I was as full as the moon, I was already looking forward to the next evening’s meal.

The next day, as I headed for a solitary stroll along the beach, I saw Theo picking fresh fennel from the herb garden in the grounds of Links House. I daydream about the curry he was going to make for me later that evening as I ambled past

As it turned out, he didn’t have to change much at all to make this curry vegan.

“I would say that 90% of the recipes my grandma passed down to me are already plant-based,” he tells me. “Dairy wasn't a big thing out there and with the heat and the power cuts, they had no way of storing it. The only thing I had to change was the protein. My grandma usually served it with prawns or chicken, but the base sauce is totally plant-based.”

What Theo cooked for me that evening was a Burmese-style mulligatawny. I’ve never eaten it before, but I need to try it again! He even gave me a little secret tip for if I want to attempt it myself.

““At that moment, it was a bit like seeing the light change in the Dornoch sky.””

“It's one of my favourite curries my grandmother taught me to cook. Her trick is to add in uncooked gram flour at the end to give it a slight acidic note.”

I asked him how his Burmese heritage steers his cooking today.

“I'm not gonna lie,” he answers. “My heritage doesn't influence my cooking at work, but at home, I cook loads of curries for my friends and family.” He goes on to tell me about the “sharing” style of Burmese cooking and eating, and the healing value of good food. “My mum, Trilby, always says ‘A good meal will cure anything,’ and this is something I strongly believe in.”

As he talks about his family’s style of cooking versus the cooking he does at work, I saw how the two were fitting together perfectly. “Here at Mara I am very lucky to be submerged in a group of people that really care about the service we provide,” he says. “So I guess the whole cooking ethos of the Burmese sharing style has influenced how my attention is put into the restaurant and the hotel every day, and I hope I pass that on to the junior members of the team.”

I finish every last speck of this lively curry. Theo jokes that if his grandmother could see how he’d cooked it she’d have something to say, but I couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be better than it was.

“My grandma ended up settling in Liverpool for a big part of her life,” he says. “This is where she taught home economics to young kids at school and she also worked as a pastry chef in a Michelin starred restaurant back in the day so I guess cooking has always been in my blood.”

I barely notice that the light had faded completely outside and the evening had fallen. Inside, warmed by the wine and the Mullagatawny, I was filled with the heart of it all.