Stereo Glasgow

Vegging out has its limits

With the world's population set to hit nine billion by 2050, we'll need more land to grow food for people, not feedstuffs for livestock. Even as a carnivore, I'm resigned to the fact that the new, responsible 21st-century way to think about meat is as a garnish for vegetables and other plant foods, not the other way around. For years I've traded up on meat, buying less but better, and using up all those subprime bits we used to throw away so profligately.

That's why the freezer is filling up with pigs' trotters and marrow bones.

I also expect to find myself eating out more in vegetarian places, like Stereo, in Glasgow. Stereo isn't just a veggie eatery, it is vegan, which means it serves no animal products whatsoever. Vegans are the hardline Marxist Lentilists of the veggie world. Unlike woolly-minded lacto-ovarians who decry veal but lap up milk, the vegans are a more rigorous, and mainly logical, lot.

I tread carefully here. Some of the most venomous letters that have ever popped into my mailbag have come from vegans. "Dear Ms Blythman, How would you like it if your offspring was taken away and shot ! ! ! ! ! at birth like a dairy calf?" Vegans can be much less forgiving, believe me, than angry farmers, food processors, pharmaceutical companies or the lawyers representing them.

But at laid-back Stereo, there are no signs of extremism. The mood is Bohemian and refreshingly non-corporate, always something to be applauded in a city centre venue where so many of the eating out possibilities are clones or chains.

Stereo's premises in Renfield Lane are a one-off as well, the lower floor of a less well-known Charles Rennie Mackintosh building, with swooping sandstone curves and an unusual tiled exterior.

I have a soft spot for any eating place that bakes its own bread, which Stereo does heroically each day – a bouncy granary made from organic flour, with a properly chewy crust. The sort of bread that really could be the staff of life. It turned up with two very likeable soups. The first, roasted tomato and pepper, packed such a concentrated punch it felt as though it must count as 25 portions of veg in one bowl. The second was a thick, fragrant lentil and potato number, more of an Indian dal, spiked with cumin and Nigella seeds and a bracing seasoning of chilli.

Not unreasonably, this being a vegan establishment, the bread comes with veggie margarine. I steadfastly ignored it. I'm up for the limitless vegetable and pulse bit, but veggie substitutes for animal products are a step too far. I draw a line at scrambled tofu (instead of eggs), tempeh rashers and textured vegetable protein masquerading as meat. As for non-dairy cream, I once nearly fell out with the love of my life because he came home with a carton of Elmlea instead of cream.

I was about to go for the bulgur and bean balls, which came with homebaked flat bread, when I spotted that the dish included veggie "cheese". So instead I sought safety in the turlu turlu. This consisted of Turkish-style vegetables and tomato mixed with chickpeas. It came with tzadziki (I managed not to notice that the white stuff wasn't yoghurt), flat bread, which was fresh and rustic, and a vivacious green salad. A fairly elementary dish, but tasty and healthy.

Much the same could be said of the fajitas, which consisted of sweet, slow-roasted vegetables with nicely charred extremities topped with sliced green jalapeno peppers, capacious tortillas and a zingy lime and tomato salsa. The guacamole was off the menu, so there was more tzadziki with mystery white stuff instead. We missed the guacamole.

Passionfruit cheesecake appealed until we reminded ourselves that it should really be called a passionfruit cheese-free-cake. So that left the caramelised walnut sponge.

Be warned, Stereo has a small menu. This is a place at least as focused on drink and music as food. The sponge was OK, but I couldn't help thinking how much better it would taste had it been made with butter. No letters, please, about the ecological and spiritual evilness of butter.

There's a limit to the number of new tricks an old dog can learn.