Not a Scottish Star

The restaurant at Inverlochy Castle raises my hackles almost immediately. It annoys me when I'm asked to pre-order food anywhere but when you're staying in the hotel and are pressed for an answer on checking in at 4pm it is even more irritating. You are a Michelin starred restaurant, surely you can cope with people ordering food, the first basic skill for any restaurant to master after perhaps showing guests to their tables? I start to bare my teeth when the wine list arrives: plenty on there at around the oooh £3 thousand mark. Not so much under £50. Given that a room facing the carpark clocks in at over £500 a night I struggle to see the need to subsidise the hotel operation through an overinflated wine list. Happily the sommelier is not as pompous as the list itself and when we decide to order individual wines to go with each of our 3 courses we get 5 delicious (and much more reasonably priced) suggestions by the glass. The food, thank goodness, is good. I started with wild salmon on a pea puree with a bacon foam. The fish was delicate but a touch underdone; the foam an almost genius Heston-like touch except that it was more of a dense mousse. My quail was a huge chunk of juicy wonderful meat with intense morels but so rich I couldn't finish it. Although I love fancy food still being filling food, sometimes more is less. The mistakes were small but for Michelin-starred food, at this price up here, it should be faultless. For me, the kitchen only really showed its worth in the pudding: a smile-inducing banana souffle which was original, fun, childhood reminiscence with a grown-up twist. There's no denying the grandeur of the castle, with views out over a small loch and squishy sofas by a fire that's been roaring no doubt since Rob Roy's time. But the atmosphere is a bit stuffed shirt crossed with Emperor's New Clothes. This might be the best place in the Highlands but it wouldn't cut the mustard south of the border where there are better places to spend £200 on dinner for 2.

Swanky Swinton

We stayed at Swinton Park on the first night of our honeymoon, which happened to be my birthday to boot, so hopes were running high for a luxuriant, romantic, gourmet meal. Hopes compounded by spotting a cookery school in the grounds. Would this be a case of practice what you preach or physician heal thyself? I started with a beautiful chunky rabbit pate thing (although I am sure it was described as something posher like “parfait”) with a refreshingly sharp apple/celeriac shredded garnish, a nice marriage of flavours. My duck main lacked seasoning, but that was easily put right by a quick shake of the salt cellar, and was juicy, pink and perfectly cooked, if a touch rare. An unusual strawberry/basil sorbet concoction rounded the meal off nicely. The wine list is a joy to behold: a myriad of bottles in the £25-50 range with a few expensive outliers to tickle the fancy of any big spenders; we enjoyed a modest Mendozan Malbec. Service is solicitous (perhaps a bit too much- I don't need to be asked twice if everything is OK with the main!) but that's a reflection of the very high levels of service in the hotel generally. The aristocratic-portrait lined dining room is impressive, I just wish there had been a few more bums on seats so we didn't have to talk in those hushed reverential tones we so Englishly employ in near empty restaurants. This place tries hard to avoid milking you for the captured audience that you are: the cuisine may not be quite Michelin star worthy but it uses plenty of quality local ingredients, is interesting and competent, and doesn't cost the earth. Dinner was a very reasonable £57 a head (plus wine). I would highly recommend staying the night: DB&B packages are worth every penny in a place which combines an extremely grand location with perfect personal touches. It's so good in fact we've just booked in for the last day of our honeymoon too.

Commanded my attention anyway

The fact that I can actually remember my meal at all at The Commander is a testament to its kitchen because I came here for the evening pit-stop on my hen-do. My friend had booked the private room which was quirkily beautiful with some memorable Murano-style chandeliers and bird wallpaper somewhere on the generic retro/art-deco/vintage scale. We milled around admiring it whilst someone plied us with champagne and we waited for the whole group to arrive. Although there were only 3 choices per course, I was extremely happy with my decisions. I started with tuna sashimi which has the potential to disappoint in a pub but was chunky and meatily flavoursome. My main of pork belly trumped The Abbeville's use of this ingredient from earlier in the day; it was paired with tender scallops and, if memory serves me rightly (which weirdly it seems to be doing for this meal more than lunch) some beautifully ambitious swirls of puree. To finish I took a risk and went for the 3 macarons: risky because, although I love them, there's always a danger of food envy when something like a cheesecake turns up next to you, but I can still taste the wonderful, unusual Earl Grey macaron so it was a great end to a great meal. Naturally I have to say the atmosphere, created as it was entirely by my 20 girlfriends, was amazing. I can't comment on what it was like downstairs; it seemed cheery enough as we walked through but then when you're carrying an inflatable man with David Gandy's face pasted on the front you're bound to get a warm welcome from the locals. I didn't particularly notice the service, but I think that can only be a good thing, because it means they weren't grumpy or leaving us hungry or thirsty and I got to enjoy the company of my girlfriends. Likewise, I can't comment on the value: ladies, I hope you thought it worth the tab for yourself and for me. It was certainly the best value meal I've had for ages!

I think it was good....

The mezzanine level at The Abbeville is a lovely spot for a group booking for a casual lunch or, in in the case of my recent visit, a not so casual, stomach-lining, champagne-swigging, hen-day launch. I should say upfront that it was just over a week ago, I drank a lot of bubbles at the time and have drunk a lot of bubbles since, so you might want to take my thoughts with a pinch of salt. A pinch of salt though was exactly what my starter, some pork belly roll things which I can't find on the online menu to give you a more accurate description, needed. The meat itself was tender but lacked the salty ooooomph of a Bodean's or Big Easy pulled pork mouthful and whilst the kitchen might be aiming for something more elegant that shouldn't mean giving up the seasoning altogether. I followed with a chicken ballotine, again something I can't find on the online menu to describe better, so thumbs up to the extensive and ever-changing specials menu on which my meal must have appeared. I remember the meat being a bit wetly mushroomy on the inside with a slightly dry parma type coating on the outside. It is entirely possible however that my tastebuds had been sacrificed on the altar to Bacchus though so don't take my word for it. I fear I am picking holes in what was otherwise a very enjoyable meal and I should say I ate the lot and so did everyone else who sampled everything from elegant grilled fish to but-gusting burgers, but the dish which got the most food envy was an amazing looking pie of the day, for which, unsurprisingly, I cannot find any better online description. Service was exactly what you'd expect from a good neighbourhood gastro-pub handling 15 over-excited ladies. We went on to a recording studio 5 mins away, something which thanks to immortalisation in CD format, I will never be able to forget.

Decent pub off Clapham High Street

The Stonhouse is barely recognisable from these promo pictures which make it look, without any customers, airily capacious. When it's rammed at the weekend it feels rather compact; you won't see any of those lovely floors, but you'll still be able to admire the quirky Granny's-back-in-fashion bird wallpaper. There's also a bijou (aka small) suntrap terrace out the back which gets busy on fine days but you can usually shoehorn a few extra people at any half-filled tables as the crowd's a friendly kind of bunch. Our hangover-busting burger order didn't particularly challenge the kitchen but they did the job and were juicy and unusually (but brilliantly) cooked on the rarer side of medium into the bargain. There seems to be the normal gastro-gumpf on the menu: I have vague recollections of seeing a confit of duck and the promise of Sunday roasts. The one blip on an otherwise glossily casual Clapham horizon is the patchy service. The waitress outside was chatty but struggling, as she frantically told us, with serving the heaving area single-handedly. She did admirably in the circumstances. What a shame the surly bar staff let the atmosphere down: you can be brusque if you're being brisk but if your service is slow you need at least to be smiley. And if the customer isn't even trying to buy a round but just pay the tab then for goodness sake take their money before they are tempted to give up on the 20 min wait to even see the bill and leave you out of pocket. At £45 for 3 mains and 3 soft drinks the dent in the pocket wouldn't be too big but I'm sure the owners would still think it worth collecting. I noticed this once grubby off-track boozer is now part of a small South London gang including the much-loved (and more pronounce-able) Avalon and Abbeville, also worth checking out if you're looking for a non-Infernos-based night out around SW4.

Unique, for now.

Bonnie Gull Seafood Shack could be unique in being unique in London. One of a kind, individual, a one off. It's how I imagine a posh crab shack on the Maine coastline would look: a beach hut with sun-bleached clapboards but filled with linen-laid tables and grown-up glassware. The kind of place where you'd expect a few off-duty US politicians in chinos. You can almost smell the sea salty air. It was empty when I arrived midweek at 12.15pm but soon filled up enough to provide a gentle background hum without ever turning into an annoying buzz. The clientele's a mixed bunch: a few young men chatting to the bartender, a couple of older suits, a ladies' lunch gang. All very genteel and relaxed though. The menu is fish, of course! I started with venus clams, oily deliciousness, and then rather unimaginatively had the fish and chips. It was good although I wish I had tried something else as fish and chips, no matter how good, never really blows you away and there were plenty of other appealing options. Next time I'd go for a crustacean, assuming there's one on the menu which looks like it changes regularly in tune with the seasons/catch of the day. The wine list is short but sweet. A couple of crisp glasses of Albarino hit the spot for me but others might find the choice a bit limited. Service is friendly, relaxed, helpful, unhurried (at times it might need a bit of a push along but it's difficult to get het up about anything in here). If only the bill were in dollars though: £56 a head is a bit of a pinch for a chippy lunch but I suppose for 2 and a quarter hours of quiet pleasure it's cheaper than a Swedish massage and more effective. No doubt the owners are already planning a burgeoning Shack chain. Shame, but I'm too relaxed to work up a sweat about it right now.

Surprising and delightful find

The 16 reviews on Tripadvsor for The Port House could be condensed simply into “stumbled across this surprising and delightful find”. Spot on. To flesh it out a bit, let's add here that you are in danger on this stretch of The Strand, when caught like a rabbit in the headlights of the question “Where can we get a quick bite to eat round here?”, of falling into the serviceable but not very imaginative rabbit hole of a Garfunkels or Pizza Express. If you manage to pull off an Alice and find this Irish Iberian Wonderland you will be as smug as the Cheshire Cat. Flickering candlelight and a bricky tunnel-like cavern draw you in to this Dickensian snuggery. Stop first at the long bar and try a gin-based concoction which comes in a giant globe of a glass to warm the cockles of even the most Ebeneezer of hearts (or should that be Queen of Hearts? My analogies got muddled somewhere at the bottom of that first cocktail). Wait to be called to your table and have a sherry whilst you peruse the lengthy tapas menu which covers all the traditional bases: patatas bravas, cured meats, cheeses, calamares etc. It's no Opera Tavern or Polpo when it comes to ambition or execution and by the end I feel I've probably drunk as much oil as I have albarino but it's as good as any La Rueda. Finish with a port and a smile. It's not bad value by the dish or by the drink but, as with all tapas, it all adds up and we left at least 50 notes lighter (but perhaps 50 pounds heavier). This is the perfect spot, on a cold, dark,evening to come for a quick drink and a couple of pinxtos with a friend or for a pre/post-theatre feed. It's not so great for foursomes (as you sit in U-formation on 3 sides of the table staring at the cosy couple across a narrow gap) or for those on a diet. To avoid any more stumbling around a la Alice/Tiny Tim, it's located by the Adelphi. Indulge in your own analogies as this place certainly invites them.

This new kid is already a grand old dame

It's impossible not to get a sense of grandeur when you walk through the door of The Delauney, particularly when that door is held open by an octogenarian be-hatted and be-gloved doorman. The large, open room with its dark leather seating, linen table clothes and glossy geometric flooring comes from a bygone era. So does the clientele. There's some fuss over whether you sit “in the inner circle” (yes, it's literal but also metaphorical apparently) but personally I'm glad we were on the outer edge: our youthful exuberance would have played havoc with the regulars' hearing aids. The menu owes a lot to the past too and not a good one in my opinion, being a hybrid 70s-Austro-Germanic melange: stroganoffs, schnitzels, calves liver and bacon abound. It's also too long and rather confusing with its all-day brasserie approach: I don't want to read about the eggs benedict or the New York hotdog when I've come for an elegant dinner. Happily, the cooking itself is close to perfection: my prawn cocktail had all the old elements but somehow put together in a fresh way; my spatchcock poussin was tender and juicy with a perfect light salsa verde; glazed carrots and mash sides tasted more carroty and potatoey than insipid past pretenders. I was expecting a slice of tarte for my pineapple “flammkuchen” but got a thin crispy pastry, suspiciously similar to the “tarte flambé bacon” starter my fiance had, but it was again a light, modern, delicious dish. Service is nothing less than you'd expect for this venue: discreet, professional, a little formal at times. At £70 a head (incl wine/teas) I thought it was money well spent. If you are looking for good cooking, proper service, a pleasant atmosphere, no gimmicks, no silly “no booking” policy, and reasonable prices, then reliable old dame The Delauney will deliver. No wonder it's already a hit with the silver foxes.

Shhhhh

Hush is in a fantastic location, tucked in a courtyard off Bond Street, far from the madding tourist crowds. Unfortunately it rather trades off this. It's beautifully done inside being light and airy, but formal and elegant, with a mix of tables and low-backed booths and therefore suits anything from a light weekend lunch with a girlfriend to a completion dinner with colleagues. But nothing else quite matches up to the expectation the location and look engender. Service is, as commented on, patchy. When I queried whether the menu had changed significantly in the last year or so (since I was last in) I caught the waitress actually rolling her eyes as she turned away. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and when we ordered I smiled deliberately and she smiled back with what seemed genuine warmth and gave a helpful wine recommendation. I struggled with the menu as it seems to be heavy meats or boring fish (and all over-priced at average £18-£25) and nothing very light lunch-y. In the end I had a main course sized tuna salad, which had lovely sashimi-type slices under a thickish lettuce layer. But it isn't £19.50 worth really. So dessert was a necessity. It looked like being the highlight with modern takes on old classics but my white chocolate and early grey creme brulee didn't work as well as it should have (bit too bitter on top, too cloying underneath). The one plus point is that you can have pretty much any wine on the list by the glass. All in all a bit of an overpriced disappointment. There are better places to spend your £45, better brasseries, better chefs, even if you have to brave the hordes to find them.

Perfect chip off the old block

This branch of Polpo isn't just inspired by the original, it's a near replica. The mix of tables and bar stool eating is the same; the exposed brickwork meets reclaimed white Victorian toilet tiles are the same; there's even the same bijou downstairs bar room. Normally such cloning would have me sighing over the inevitable lust to which every successful restauranteur seems to succumb, to turn their little one-off independent gem into a branded chain. Gah. But for once, I won't complain, because Polpo has got it so right it would be wrong to prevent it offering its pleasures to the maximum number of people possible and its location at Smithfield, where butcher boys rub shoulders with Clerkenwell gents, is inspired. I was at this branch for lunch and, woopeedoo, you can book! Having said that, they weren't very flexible on the booking times despite being curiously half empty on a Friday lunch time at 1pm. Despite this the atmosphere maintains its usual hum with laid back rustic charm. The menu is on its usual rough recycled type paper (presumably designed to give the impression that its disposable and changes every day but it never changes much as far as I can tell). The food is its usual quality: actually the cuttlefish in ink risotto if anything has got even more delicious; the bruschetta, which I hadn't tried before, turned out to be substantial hunks of bread with creamy cheese; I loved the flourless orange cake. Service is friendly as ever (well, I find it to be friendly, others may demur). For £40 a head it's not the cheapest lunch you could have, but it's worth it. I'd probably pass on the house white another time, but other than that this is an experience I would happily repeat again and again and again.

Trot on!

I have been trying to come to Riding House Cafe for about 18 months and so it seems has everyone else. You need to book a couple of weeks in advance for a weekend, which mercifully we had, because on arrival the staff make it perfectly clear you're lucky to be here. Standing behind the large table at the entrance designed to keep clients as far away from “welcoming staff” as possible, a “hostess” will eventually remember her training, break off her huddled conversation, smile and enquire about your booking, whilst another fends off a starved customer who has been waiting at the bar for god knows how long. The space afforded the door staff is not extended to the customers who are crammed in literally (yes, literally, I do not use this term lightly) cheek-by-jowl. Once seated, the serving staff are actually rather pleasant and approachable as well as efficient (and thin, in order to move between tables). It's billed as an “all-day brasserie” and that's just about what it does: expect eggs florentine, burgers, steaks etc. There are a few dishes which break the mould but nothing I found particularly appealing (spiced beetroot fritters?) as well as, wow this is original, some small sharing plates. My burger and chips were perfectly edible but not much to write home about. I had a bottle of coca cola which would normally make me happy (so superior to a can) but as I'd asked for a pint I wasn't impressed. At least warn me you can't bring one. I can't honestly understand what all the fuss is about and I certainly shan't be battling to come back or waiting at 2pm desperately for a chance to sample the food. Yes, the buzzing atmosphere makes it a great place for casual lunch with the girls, but its success lies in it being just a little, tiny bit more great than the other many nearly-great places nearby. If there's room, fab; if not, try elsewhere and don't be disappointed.

Michelin stars in Cambridge

Cambridge city is a bit of a gastro wasteland: plenty of chains, curry houses and pubs but not many decent, independent restaurants with quality cooking. So thank god for the brave souls at Alimentum who stepped forward to break the mould. The restaurant is set slightly out of town so passing trade is not going to keep them open but this won't matter as it's a place where you'd book to come to for a special night out. As soon as you step through the door you know you're somewhere a bit different; I'm not a huge fan of the “contemporary cool” decor with its black leather DFS dining chairs, red accent colours and oversized copper-lined light fittings but at least you feel they've made an effort. It's not quite as busy as it should be (but nowhere in Cambridge ever is on a weeknight) and service misses a beat when they place us at a table for 2 within elbowing distance of another couple, despite there being plenty of tables free. Trying to force some “atmosphere” by concentrating diners is uncomfortable and unnecessary here as there are just enough people to create a background hum. After we've moved to a better spot, I peruse the menu and my heart skips a beat. This is proper, ambitious, intriguing stuff. Ingredients like ginger, bone marrow and pumpkin seeds float across the page in interesting combinations. We decided on the 7-course tasting menu and it didn't disappoint. There are amuse bouches; there's veloute; there're small, but intensely flavoursome, mouthfuls; there's sauce smeared in controlled swirls. In short, it's food worthy of London. The matched wines were all perfectly pleasant, but sadly unlike the food, not very adventurous. Serving a hefty red at the second course is a bit punchy for my liking (but what can you do when the chef serves up slow-roasted lamb neck?) but the sommelier made up for it with a beautiful dessert wine. At £115 a head it was London pricing, but worth every belated-Valentine penny and not unreasonable for this Michelin-starred meal.

Godmother's delight

Assuming Quo Vadis is still going in 15 years time I will be bringing my godson here for his first swanky grown-up London restaurant experience and trying not to bore on too much about how I came here “in my youth” with his parents for a great meal. We'll battle through Soho streets, find the revolving door between the sex-shop and the latest oxygen bar, then step into a sophisticated world which hasn't changed since my last visit. The still smiling staff in the lobby will whisk us straight up to the “members only” feel bar and I'll order him an amazing cocktail while we lounge on the comfy sofas. Before it goes to his head we will head down to the lively dining room, picking our way through the well-heeled clientele (he'll be relieved I nagged him into wearing clean trousers), to our banquette table tucked away behind a glass screen at the back. The menu will baffle him a bit and I'll explain the meaning of “rissoles”, “sweetbreads” and “green salad”. Even though the menu changes daily (and we can tell as it says -5 degrees at the top today and it hasn't been that warm since the Big Freeze of 2015) by extraordinary coincidence I'll be able to have the delicious pheasant pie again with its crisp crust and gamey juice, after gorging on the same delicious pate nibbly starters. I will have insisted on ordering veggie sides and then remembered that they're not necessary and we're full now and can't fit in pudding which is a shame because rhubarb trifle or a little chocolate tart would have reminded me of a bygone era before even my own. We'll have downed a few glasses of new-world red (French wine's been banned since we exited the EU). We'll roll out into the night after a hefty bill inflated somewhat since the £55 a head I paid all those years ago and I'll give him £500 for the hovercraft ride back to his student digs in slummy Chelsea. Godson's parents, if you're reading, there is nothing Mrs Robinson about this, I promise. You can come too if you want, it's going to be great.

If you like Cath Kidston or Orla Kiehly prints, own a Bugaboo and drive a Range Rover (Vogue model, never gone more than 5 miles from the Royal Borough) then Daylesford Organic is the Saturday pick-me-up post-shopping-at-Trotters brunch venue for you. Oh OK, I am being a bit mean. I actually totally support the whole happy meat, foodie market, farm to fork thing but it's just too easy to take a pop at somewhere so organically smug. To get to the cafe wade through the cheese-perusing crowds and head upstairs where (surprisingly democratic this) large, communal tables await you. You'll probably need to trip up a waitress to get some attention as they are fending off the demands of a hundred hungry Hugos but when you do order food and drinks come quickly enough. The menu is Ladies-Who-Lunch friendly (I mean actual Ladies. With titles.) with the likes of caesar salads and poached eggs: a bit dull but jolly healthy no doubt. I had excellent scrambled eggs which were served in a charming little frying pan thing (or are they just saving on washing up?) with the meanest slither of smoked salmon I've ever seen: is this because non-farmed animals are smaller? Is this to save my ever-expanding hips? Or because, as the only thing labelled “non-organic” on the menu, they didn't really want to serve it at all? Anyway, an incredibly sharp, but freshly pressed and therefore good for me, blood orange juice and a less diet-worthy caffe latte washed it down nicely. I have blocked the price from my mind as it felt a bit high for an upmarket brekkie, but as this place is the antithesis of the local greasy spoon, it was fair enough. I am so sorry, Lady Bamford, for my ungrateful words. It's lovely in here. Everyone is nice. People smile. I'm just not used to it and heading back out on to the recession-bitten streets of London is like being inside a giant bubble which has just burst leaving you covered in washing up liquid. Clean in theory but a bit icky in practice.

Yes, McQueen is named after the iconic Steve so you'd be right in expecting it to be a big bad boys' venue, with leather aplenty, Dude food sympathies and a moody, broody, cool attitude. But it also turned out to be a surprisingly good place for a suit and his female ex colleague (me) to catch up over a casual lunch. Although it is only a 8 min walk from Moorgate you feel like you have left The City a long way behind and despite its proximity to Old Street there are no Shoreditchers in sight (presumably they only come out at night). In fact there were very few people in here at all even though it was classic Friday funtime. No complaints about this though as it meant we had the pick of the big squashy low sofas by the large picture windows. We opted to stay here rather than go through to the restaurant as I had already spotted on the bar menu the only thing I was interested in: the steak sandwich. I haven't had one of these for ages but I consider it the litmus test for lunch in this type of place. Apart from one sliver of beef with a chewy veiny edge, the rest of the meat was tender and tasty. It wasn't that easy to eat (being a huge ciabatta laden, salady, saucy mouthful) but that that didn't stop me polishing it off. A few chips grace the side of the serving board but really it's all about the sarnie. For a tenner, it was very good value. Service was efficient enough and fairly friendly although they weren't exactly being put through their paces in the nearly empty bar. At night I dare say this turns into the kind of place described as “throbbing” (I think I spotted a DJ booth in the corner) and I'm not sure that would be up my street but despite the testosterone driven decor (oversized pics of Steve, silver plated aeroplane paraphernalia etc) it doesn't feel too blokey in here during the day. More Gaucho grill than Groucho club. Still, I can't wait til someone opens up a McQueens in homage to the Hollyoaks TV family. That would be one for the girls.