Sunday, 27 February 2011

Hectors, Deanhaugh Street, Stockbridge

Three things that are desirable after traipsing for 25 miserable minutes through near-apocalyptic rain on a Friday night: a big drink, a tasty meal, and having both of these delivered to your table by a member of staff who can smother their misanthropic urges long enough to throw a bedraggled customer a smile, a hello and a menu without being asked.

If you have the same unreasonably lofty expectations as me, then I suggest you give alleged gastropub Hectors in Stockbridge a very wide berth.

Things started badly from the off when, having dropped my X-ray glasses in a puddle outside, I was unable to read the giant invisible signs notifying customers that it was free seating in the restaurant. So it really was silly of me to ask the waiter whether there were any available tables, and he was right to arrange his face into an expression of sullen disdain and with a regal flick of hand inform me that I could “just sit anywhere”.

Having found a table - bedecked with the flotsam and jetsam of the previous occupant’s dinner, but a table nonetheless – I squelched into my seat and waited for my friend and a menu to arrive. Fifteen minutes later, Liz was in situ, but our menu remained mysteriously at large anywhere but our still-filthy table. With some reluctance after my earlier telling off, I approached the clutch of po-faced staff, suckered barnacle-style to one end of the bar, and requested a menu be brought to our table by the window. I should have known better than to leave empty-handed to put my socks under the hand dryer, because upon my return no menu was to be found.

It was a further 5 minutes before an unsmiling waitress flounced up and tossed a menu on the table with the words “well, you walked off before I could see where you were sitting.” Hungry, and not wishing to prolong our interminable preprandial song and dance any further, I chose not to point out that with the facts “by the window” and “no menu” it was hardly a stretch to work out where said menu was required. Our drinks order – two glasses of wine – took a further 10 minutes to emerge, and didn’t last long to say the least.

After this near-comatose start, our soggy evening started to look up a little. After placing our order at the bar, our food arrived promptly and was brought out by a quiet but perfectly sweet-tempered waitress, who even managed to wipe down the table before the meals were served, a mere 45 minutes after my ignominious self-seating. My starter of salt and pepper calamari was a solid A-, encased in a batter a touch too heavy for my liking, but the squid was tender, and complemented nicely by a beautifully-flavoured lime mayo.

Liz, passing on a starter, opted for the house burger, which was a pleasingly hefty discus of peppery, medium-rare meat, generously accessorised with an oozingly marbled slice of melting blue cheese and double layer of streaky bacon. She pronounced the accompanying pot of beetroot coleslaw a little inconsequential, but gave an unequivocal thumbs up to the earthy, skin-on thick-cut chips piled liberally on the side.

My choice of a diet-amended soul soother in the form of bangers and mash similarly looked promising, anointed liberally as it was with a mahogany-hued, conker-glossy balsamic vinegar gravy that was silky and fruitily tart. Sadly, this was to be the high point of an otherwise woeful effort from the Hectors kitchen. The roasted squash, parsnips and Savoy cabbage were a pleasantly imaginative low-carb alternative to mashed potato, but were dreadfully executed. The parsnips, cut far too small for roasting, were witchy, shrivelled fingers that tasted of nothing more than vegetable oil and oven, and the oversized lumps of butternut squash were fibrous and stringy, characteristics which would have been noted by any decent chef when it was being prepared.

Unimpressive but forgivable – maybe – if upon the veg hadn’t sat four unmistakeably burnt Cumberland sausages. Chunky and herb-flecked within, they actually had the hallmarks of a high-standard meat product, but any signs of quality were totally obliterated by an acrid taste of burnt fat reminiscent of an uncleaned George Foreman grill. I should have sent them back, but couldn’t muster the energy to beg for the attention of the surly waiting staff again.

At two courses for ten pounds, plus £4 for a large glass of wine, the only really positive thing I have to say about our washout meal is that it was mercifully cheap -
– although given the risible customer service and seriously hit-or-miss food, still a pretty high price to pay.

So a port in the storm? I’m afraid to say, Hectors is not.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

The Mussel Inn, Rose Street

After a long hiatus from dining out, and therefore also from blogging (culprit: the money-gobbling double juggernaut that is Christmas and the January sales, and resultant poverty), I banished the drear and misery of an impecunious January with a trip to seafood purveyor The Mussel Inn. Wedged snugly into a truly impressive line of old man pubs along Rose Street, it’s something of an Edinburgh institution, but owing to an only-recently-quashed aversion to fish, this was just my second visit.

An Inn it may be, but none of the stale carpets, fruit machines or grizzled pint-suppers that characterise the resto’s neighbours were to be found when we arrived. Airily done out with pine tables and a chalkboard menu with jazzy fish mosaics leaping across the walls, it felt like we’d found a brave glimmer of summer on that particularly rainswept evening, and we were faintly miffed when we didn’t step out onto a sun-dappled boardwalk at the end of the night.

Similarly unpretentious was the menu. On offer was a selection of prawns, scallops, oysters, a catch of the day and a couple of meat and veggie options for fish naysayers, but both partner-in-dine Ali and I were in payday pig mode and each went for a kilo of mussels in shallot, cream and white wine sauce, with French bread basket (which comes included in the price and is refilled for free) and a large bowl of chips (which doesn’t).

Our food arrived with almost startling promptness, although it was hardly unwelcome as the two steaming cauldrons heaving with glinting, garlic-scented shells were set in front of us. It took me the best part of an extremely pleasant 45 minutes to plough my way through my portion, but I wouldn’t have left even one of those wee guys – these mussels were sweet, pearly tangerine-coloured petals, without a trace or gristle or grit, and not a dud “shuttie” in the lot. They were fresh enough to be fantastic au naturel but it would have been a crying shame to miss out on the sauce – I find seafood and cream can sometimes be a bit rich for my tastes, but this was a light, salty concoction that balanced the wine to cream ratio with alchemic precision. In fact, my only complaint of the meal was having to dig through the heaped pot, piece of bread trembling rapaciously in hand, to get my dunk on. As for the accompanying chips, as moules-frites purists, both Ali and I would probably have preferred a slender fry, but the Mussel Inn’s piping hot and golden-crispy offering was the very best version of it’s thick-cut cousin, and stood up very well to further shameless dipping.

With a kilo of mussels consumed and food coma fast approaching, neither of us could stomach more than a coffee each, but a glance at the dessert menu, which featured apple strudel, sticky date pudding and chocolate crème brulee, suggests that the Mussel Inn applies a refreshingly untrendy approach in all aspects of their cooking. I’d definitely be curious to see whether they can execute classic puddings as well as they do shellfish on a return visit.

So, whilst I know that those old man pubs on Rose Street are loved by many, for an ungimmicky, unfussy and well done old-timer (with a salt air slant), I think I’ll cast my line at the Mussel Inn.

Around £25 per person including coffee, wine and tip.