ISLE OF MULL, SCOTLAND—There are meals, and then there are journeys disguised as meals. This one began with a boat across Loch Creran, forty minutes skimming dark Scottish waters, dodging seals and dolphins, before stepping onto the Isle of Mull. From there, an hour-long bus ride on a single-lane road toward the far edge of the island. By the time we arrived, we were certain of two things: we were far from anywhere, and we were about to experience something rare.
The Ninth Wave is the most remote restaurant I have ever visited, and it’s not even close. Tucked into the western edge of the Isle of Mull, it is more than just “off the beaten path.” It is hidden, tucked away as if it were meant to be discovered only by those willing to earn it. You won’t find it easily with GPS. Even with modern technology, the odds are slim—without our guide, we would have been lost. And yet, that remoteness is part of its allure. In Celtic legend, the ninth wave is said to be the threshold to another world, a wave that carries you to places of delight and wonder. The restaurant lived up to its name. Carla and John Lamont, the couple behind The Ninth Wave, have run it since 2009. From the Isle of Mull to Australia, guests have traveled to find this tiny, improbable restaurant. It has become a destination, a pilgrimage, even. John is a fisherman, lobsterman, and crab trapper. He hauls in every lobster and fish served in the restaurant. He also ships Scottish seafood to Spanish markets. His daily catch defines the menu, shaping what will appear on the plate that evening. Carla is both chef and master gardener, cultivating herbs, vegetables, and edible blossoms in the croft garden that surrounds the restaurant. The garden is no ordinary patch of herbs and greens—it is a living archive. Historic plants grown from heirloom seeds thrive there, alongside bog myrtle, thyme, heather, and sorrel. Following island tradition, they cure, smoke, and brine both meat and seafood on-site, layering in the flavors of the land. Carla’s cooking pays homage to the island itself, while also carrying the influence of her Canadian heritage. She weaves Asian and Pacific Northwest flavors into the very best of Scottish ingredients, producing dishes that feel both familiar and completely new. A quarter-finalist on MasterChef: The Professionals, a U.K. television competition, she has the skill to dazzle, but it’s her joy in storytelling that makes the meal unforgettable. Carla doesn’t just send plates to the table. She walks them there, talking you through what you’re about to eat, how it was grown, and why it matters. There’s as much delight in her voice as in the food itself.
They open for only five months a year. The rest of the time, they travel the world, studying cuisines and cooking styles, gathering ideas that eventually show up on the plates in Mull. The restaurant is as much a reflection of those wanderings as it is of the soil and waters outside their door. We dined there with friends, and the meal unfolded like chapters in a story. Carla introduced each course with that same mix of authority and delight, and what followed felt less like lunch service and more like a narrative told in four parts. The opening dish—inspired by travels in Mexico—was a cool avocado soup, green and bright, infused with nettle purée, lemon verbena, epazote, corn hash, chipotle peppers, and hoja santo, a Mexican herb. On top, a generous portion of lobster, freshly caught by John that morning. The bowl was garnished with Vietnamese coriander and kale blossoms from the greenhouse and alongside sat a tiny chimichanga filled with lobster pâté. It was bold and surprising, a blend of Celtic waters and global spices. A warm mackerel salad followed, built around fish John had pulled from the sea that morning. Charlotte potatoes, folded into crème fraîche and garden horseradish, anchored the dish. Smoked almonds, pickled beets, and crumbled blue cheese elevated it, while a delicate choux bun filled with blue cheese paste arrived on the side. The flavors were rustic and refined all at once. Venison from the island appeared next, served with a sauce rooted in East Africa: choosy wachindi from Mombasa, an East African spice base common in coastal cooking. A pimento gâteau, mango-lime chutney, and cassava chips completed the plate, while marigold blossoms and cardamom leaves offered fragrance and color. The dish told the story of Carla and John’s travels—the meeting of Mull’s wild game with faraway influences. A fig tree sat just outside the dining room window protected on three sides from the harsh winds of the island. So it was no surprise that dessert was simply called “Figs, Figs, and Figs.” A tart made from fig leaves and white chocolate, a meringue scented with fig leaf and lemon verbena, roasted fig jam, roasted fig ice cream, and a crisp fig-leaf tuile. It was playful and abundant, a finale that lingered long after the last bite. Over a quick visit with Carla at the end of the meal she reflected on their unlikely success. “When we opened in 2009, people told us we’d never make it. We weren’t even on the main drag, and everyone preaches ‘location, location, location.’ But I believed if you love what you’re doing enough, people will find you. And they did. Folks come all the way from Australia just to eat here. That still amazes me.” That is the spirit of The Ninth Wave: conviction, risk, and love for craft. The location is not the point. The remoteness is not an obstacle. It is the promise—the ninth wave carrying you to something unforgettable. This was my second time in Scotland this year. The first trip, back in May, was for work. This week, I returned with a group of friends, and it was different. Travel with friends adds a richness no dish can match. The shared bus rides, the jokes over the narrow road, the awe of finding such a place together—those are as lasting as the food itself. Meals like that prove it’s never just the food. It’s the people across the table. In that small dining room on the edge of Mull, with friends beside me and Carla guiding us through each course, it felt less like a restaurant and more like a table set just for us. The older I get, the more I see how friends make everything better—the laughter, the stories, even the quiet stretches stay with me as much as the food. Those times mean more to me now than I ever expected. On the ride back down that narrow one-lane road toward the harbor, it struck me that The Ninth Wave isn’t simply a restaurant. It’s a statement—that passion and persistence matter more than geography. That doing something well, and doing it with love, is enough to draw people across oceans. Carla and John have carved out a place at the edge of the world that honors the soil, the sea, and the traditions of the island. People will always find them. And for me, sharing that table with friends was a reminder that the best meals aren’t measured in miles, but in the company we keep. Onward.
