Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2014 7:09:51 GMT
Lovely bit of writing by Jay Rayner in the Observer this morning.
Somehow mocking the whole scene whilst enjoying the food. I find the idea of £175 for a meal for two people somewhat obscene but I suppose if you have the spare pennies.....
His mum was a customer of mine. Claire Rayner used to huff and puff up the stairs in my shop in Suffolk. Lovely woman but she was ....B I G.
Anyway:
Caledonian Hotel, Princes Street, Edinburgh (0131 222 8975). Meal for two, including drinks and service £175
There may be prettier dining rooms than the Pompadour at Edinburgh’s Caledonian Hotel, but not bloody many. It’s a wedding cake of a room, all crisp ceiling rose and cornice and detail. There are delicate hand-painted panels, in sweet eggshell colours against the softest of greys; of spindle branches bursting with flowers and the bird life that might sit upon them. Every table is clothed twice to protect its modesty, and through the half-arched windows the heft of Georgian Edinburgh settles back on its haunches as daylight finally leaks from the sky. Everything here feels careful and considered – even the view. At the end of the meal we will be invited to take coffee before a window that presents a perfect point from which to watch the fireworks that explode nightly at this time of year over the castle. If I had been told Edinburgh had been moved slightly to the left to facilitate this, I would have believed it.
To not mirror such prettiness on the plate would be foolish. Clearly the team behind the operation here knows this, for every dish is a serious looker. Get out your wolf whistles. Since this grand hotel was taken over and reconditioned relatively recently by the Waldorf Astoria group, it’s been run by Jeff and Chris Galvin. The brothers set up a bistro on London’s Baker Street a few years back, eschewing the flummery of the high end that had dominated their earlier careers. At the bistro it was all duck confit and pig’s head.
Soon, though, they edged back to their roots, taking over the space at the top of the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, where the view demanded a spendier option. They opened others in London and now they’re here at the Caledonian with Craig Sandle, formerly of the Balmoral, running the kitchen. Class act doesn’t quite cover it – these boys know exactly what they are doing.
Edinburgh binge: Orkney Scallop. Photograph: Robert Perry
Because we are all sophisticated now, we are meant to laugh in the face of mannered presentation. Enough with the painting of pictures on the plate. Stop building models of the Ruins of Antioch out of pancetta and olives. Flavour is what matters. And, of course, that’s true. That thing chefs do with a purée and the back of a spoon really can stop. And if I wanted to see a Jackson Pollock, I’d pop along to Tate Modern; dripping sauce across the plate like that just makes it look like you’ve developed a neural disorder.
Ah, but what if you’ve nailed the flavour thing? Perhaps then you can get a bit arty, too. In a dining room like this they weren’t going to miss an opportunity; the birds on the panels would fly away otherwise. So here comes a starter of raw Orkney scallop, diced to a tartare, dressed and spooned into quenelles, with delicately placed rings of courgette that have been mandolined with extreme prejudice.
There is a whelk vinaigrette, with the contained power of that funkiest of shellfish, and tiny cylinders of a brown-crab panna cotta held in place by squares of Melba toast of a thinness that must have been calibrated on machines with digital displays. It looks delightful, a spiral that draws you in. And praise be, it tastes good, too. The crab-cream concoction, not much bigger than your last Rolo, is a discreet slap of the sea. Likewise, the scallop tartare. It’s a dish that makes you understand the price tag of £58 for three courses. A lot of hands were involved with this.
An equally pretty plate of rabbit “Caesar” is an extended riff on what makes the Caesar salad such a huge, iconic dish, only without the foliage. Sure, there’s a little braised baby gem, made sweet from the application of heat. But mostly it’s about the salty whack of parmesan, realised as a purée, a meaty jus full of anchovy and lemon and the high notes of thyme and, soaking it up, precisely cooked pieces of bunny.
Rabbit ‘Caesar’, the ‘iconic dish without the foliage’. Photograph: Robert Perry
Nothing falters at the main courses. A large piece of seared monkfish sits atop tiny ravioli, one of langoustine, another of chervil. There are slices of caramelised cep and cauliflower and an intense shellfish bisque. It’s a party full of old friends who know that they don’t have to work too hard in each other’s company. In a plate of roast lamb and sweetbreads, everything hums along very nicely indeed, but the real entertainment comes from a bed of crushed and smoked fresh peas. I find myself wondering why you would do such a thing, let alone how. I’m only pleased they did. By God, it works.
Desserts are designed for girls in polished shoes with bows on their shiny buckles. This is a good thing. There is, as there always must be, an intense chocolate delice so shiny you can see your reflection in it. More impressively, there is a perfect raspberry soufflé and for once it has the full zing and fizz of the fruit’s acidity. It is a raspberry soufflé that tastes of raspberry. This is rarer than you might imagine.
I could have an extended moan about the wine list, which is fiercely priced and short on low-cost options. A Sancerre rosé is fresh and crisp. At £45 it ought to be. But then they lead us to the view of the fireworks, serve great coffee, plus passionfruit-flavoured jellies. I lick my sugar-crusted lips and forgive them.
The raspberry soufflé has ‘full zing and fizz’. Photograph: Robert Perry
A quick mention for Tom Kitchin’s newish gastro pub, the Scran & Scallie (1 Comely Bank Road, Stockbridge, Edinburgh, 0131 332 6281, meal for two £75), about a mile outside the city centre, where I grab lunch the next day. This is no high-end chef pretending to go all democratic; it’s the real thing. There are steak pies. There is a burger, and sausage and mash, with sticky-toffee pudding to finish. Main course prices in the mid to high teens look enthusiastic for this part of town, but there is a willing crowd. A chunk of long-smoked beef brisket slathered in a boisterous barbecue sauce of a sort that could be used to recondition garden furniture does the job.
There is a serious cauliflower cheese like your mum used to make, and shreds of deep fried pig’s ear like she didn’t. It’s a space of clean lines offset by rough-and-ready walls, and banquettes with a bit of obligatory tartan. It’s proof, if it were needed, that Edinburgh is a city that will feed you well. As the great Sammy Cahn might have said, it’s my kind of town.
Somehow mocking the whole scene whilst enjoying the food. I find the idea of £175 for a meal for two people somewhat obscene but I suppose if you have the spare pennies.....
His mum was a customer of mine. Claire Rayner used to huff and puff up the stairs in my shop in Suffolk. Lovely woman but she was ....B I G.
Anyway:
Caledonian Hotel, Princes Street, Edinburgh (0131 222 8975). Meal for two, including drinks and service £175
There may be prettier dining rooms than the Pompadour at Edinburgh’s Caledonian Hotel, but not bloody many. It’s a wedding cake of a room, all crisp ceiling rose and cornice and detail. There are delicate hand-painted panels, in sweet eggshell colours against the softest of greys; of spindle branches bursting with flowers and the bird life that might sit upon them. Every table is clothed twice to protect its modesty, and through the half-arched windows the heft of Georgian Edinburgh settles back on its haunches as daylight finally leaks from the sky. Everything here feels careful and considered – even the view. At the end of the meal we will be invited to take coffee before a window that presents a perfect point from which to watch the fireworks that explode nightly at this time of year over the castle. If I had been told Edinburgh had been moved slightly to the left to facilitate this, I would have believed it.
To not mirror such prettiness on the plate would be foolish. Clearly the team behind the operation here knows this, for every dish is a serious looker. Get out your wolf whistles. Since this grand hotel was taken over and reconditioned relatively recently by the Waldorf Astoria group, it’s been run by Jeff and Chris Galvin. The brothers set up a bistro on London’s Baker Street a few years back, eschewing the flummery of the high end that had dominated their earlier careers. At the bistro it was all duck confit and pig’s head.
Soon, though, they edged back to their roots, taking over the space at the top of the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, where the view demanded a spendier option. They opened others in London and now they’re here at the Caledonian with Craig Sandle, formerly of the Balmoral, running the kitchen. Class act doesn’t quite cover it – these boys know exactly what they are doing.
Edinburgh binge: Orkney Scallop. Photograph: Robert Perry
Because we are all sophisticated now, we are meant to laugh in the face of mannered presentation. Enough with the painting of pictures on the plate. Stop building models of the Ruins of Antioch out of pancetta and olives. Flavour is what matters. And, of course, that’s true. That thing chefs do with a purée and the back of a spoon really can stop. And if I wanted to see a Jackson Pollock, I’d pop along to Tate Modern; dripping sauce across the plate like that just makes it look like you’ve developed a neural disorder.
Ah, but what if you’ve nailed the flavour thing? Perhaps then you can get a bit arty, too. In a dining room like this they weren’t going to miss an opportunity; the birds on the panels would fly away otherwise. So here comes a starter of raw Orkney scallop, diced to a tartare, dressed and spooned into quenelles, with delicately placed rings of courgette that have been mandolined with extreme prejudice.
There is a whelk vinaigrette, with the contained power of that funkiest of shellfish, and tiny cylinders of a brown-crab panna cotta held in place by squares of Melba toast of a thinness that must have been calibrated on machines with digital displays. It looks delightful, a spiral that draws you in. And praise be, it tastes good, too. The crab-cream concoction, not much bigger than your last Rolo, is a discreet slap of the sea. Likewise, the scallop tartare. It’s a dish that makes you understand the price tag of £58 for three courses. A lot of hands were involved with this.
An equally pretty plate of rabbit “Caesar” is an extended riff on what makes the Caesar salad such a huge, iconic dish, only without the foliage. Sure, there’s a little braised baby gem, made sweet from the application of heat. But mostly it’s about the salty whack of parmesan, realised as a purée, a meaty jus full of anchovy and lemon and the high notes of thyme and, soaking it up, precisely cooked pieces of bunny.
Rabbit ‘Caesar’, the ‘iconic dish without the foliage’. Photograph: Robert Perry
Nothing falters at the main courses. A large piece of seared monkfish sits atop tiny ravioli, one of langoustine, another of chervil. There are slices of caramelised cep and cauliflower and an intense shellfish bisque. It’s a party full of old friends who know that they don’t have to work too hard in each other’s company. In a plate of roast lamb and sweetbreads, everything hums along very nicely indeed, but the real entertainment comes from a bed of crushed and smoked fresh peas. I find myself wondering why you would do such a thing, let alone how. I’m only pleased they did. By God, it works.
Desserts are designed for girls in polished shoes with bows on their shiny buckles. This is a good thing. There is, as there always must be, an intense chocolate delice so shiny you can see your reflection in it. More impressively, there is a perfect raspberry soufflé and for once it has the full zing and fizz of the fruit’s acidity. It is a raspberry soufflé that tastes of raspberry. This is rarer than you might imagine.
I could have an extended moan about the wine list, which is fiercely priced and short on low-cost options. A Sancerre rosé is fresh and crisp. At £45 it ought to be. But then they lead us to the view of the fireworks, serve great coffee, plus passionfruit-flavoured jellies. I lick my sugar-crusted lips and forgive them.
The raspberry soufflé has ‘full zing and fizz’. Photograph: Robert Perry
A quick mention for Tom Kitchin’s newish gastro pub, the Scran & Scallie (1 Comely Bank Road, Stockbridge, Edinburgh, 0131 332 6281, meal for two £75), about a mile outside the city centre, where I grab lunch the next day. This is no high-end chef pretending to go all democratic; it’s the real thing. There are steak pies. There is a burger, and sausage and mash, with sticky-toffee pudding to finish. Main course prices in the mid to high teens look enthusiastic for this part of town, but there is a willing crowd. A chunk of long-smoked beef brisket slathered in a boisterous barbecue sauce of a sort that could be used to recondition garden furniture does the job.
There is a serious cauliflower cheese like your mum used to make, and shreds of deep fried pig’s ear like she didn’t. It’s a space of clean lines offset by rough-and-ready walls, and banquettes with a bit of obligatory tartan. It’s proof, if it were needed, that Edinburgh is a city that will feed you well. As the great Sammy Cahn might have said, it’s my kind of town.
