Sue Arnold: Real men don't eat cheese toasties

'There won't be many down-to-earth eateries in St Andrews with every "yah" heading there'

Quick someone, hold the front page. On route to his first term at St Andrews University, Prince William stopped at a cafe in Callander and asked for a toastie. "Sorry, we stopped serving food half an hour ago,'' he was told. Don't worry, this isn't going to be a harangue against the woeful inadequacy of Scottish catering, nor even a discourse on the divine right of princes. Quite the contrary. Some of the best meals and service I can ever remember were had in restaurants north of the border, from the new fish cafe in Oban to the Ubiquitous Chip in Glasgow, not forgetting the famous Green Welly Stop in Crianlarich where the macaroni cheese rivals anything you will find in Palermo.

As for princes, if they're all as unimaginative as this one appears to be, who needs them? I mean a toastie for heavens sake, I bet if he'd ordered a Ben Hur, a bridie or a white puddin' supper they'd have been more eager to oblige. Mind you, this was Callander, the Scottish equivalent of Tunbridge Wells where sex is what you put the coal in and where, years ago, they filmed that most genteel of television series Dr Finlay's Casebook. If Dr Finlay's insufferable, refined housekeeper Janet saw a Ben Hur she would probably faint. It's a piece, well a length really, of deep-fried black pudding much in evidence at Scottish football matches particularly when Celtic are playing.

While we're on the glossary section, a bridie is the Scottish equivalent of a Cornish pasty except the pastry is thinner, crisper and altogether more delicious, and a white puddin' supper is a vegetarian Ben Hur usually referred to as, well, maybe not. This is a family newspaper. Tesco had to re-label one of their puddings recently because housewives were too embarrassed to call it by its good old-fashioned name – it's now called Spotted Richard.

What a lot of wimps we've all become and that includes Prince William, for there is nothing surely more wimpish than a toastie. You don't believe me? Look in the mirror and say "toastie''. Observe how your nostrils pucker prettily and your lips assume the dainty outline of a rosebud, like portraits of the young Queen Victoria sniffing her smelling salts. Now try to imagine Rab C Nesbitt, in his string vest ordering a toastie. There was a time when real men didn't eat quiche, now they don't eat toasties.

It isn't really Prince William's fault, poor lad. It's his father's for not taking him to down-to-earth places where they eat proper food. Like the greasy spoon cafe we drove past in Paisley last summer. "Today's special,'' said the board outside, "Yorkshire Pudding filled with chicken curry''. Sounds delicious. But not exactly Scottish I hear you say. Oh no? Look up Scottish cooking on the internet, as I did once in search of Athol Brose and the first thing you'll find is Mrs Isla McDonald's recipe for onion bhaji. "My grandmother taught me to make these when, as a child, I used to visit her in Selkirk in the summer holidays,'' writes Mrs McDonald nostalgically.

Other staple Scottish snacks which deserve a mention are, one, the good old mutton pie (best place for this is the butcher in Crieff high street) and two, squat lobster tails in plastic tubs for a pound a throw like the ones they sold on Oban pier when you were waiting for the Mull ferry.

There won't be many down-to-earth eateries in St Andrews these days with every "yah" in further education heading north hoping to rub shoulders with royalty. "What on earth do you mean, no puy lentil soup with ciabatta,'' I can hear all those hooray Henriettas in Hermes headscarves cry indignantly as they settle into their seats in McTavish's kitchen.

I only hope this invasion isn't going to change the face of Scottish cuisine as I know and love it. A friend told me about the time he stopped at a pub in Motherwell for a bottle of wine to take to supper with friends. "Wine?'' said the barman incredulously, "Listen pal, this is a pub.''