I was looking forward to a nice cosy dinner chez Fat Ladies with a friend on my last trip to Glasgow, but it was not to be. For reasons too complicated to explain, I found myself eating alone in the restaurant of the Malmaison. This is not usually a hardship, but this particular night proved to be an exception.
The trip had got off to a bad start when I checked in and was told I had been upgraded to a posher room. Naive enough to be delighted by this, my face fell when I opened the (as usual, funereal) curtains to discover that the posh windows of the posh room looked out onto the much less posh headquarters of Strathclyde police. Who entertained guests all night but not of the posh variety.
Worse was to come. Said friend and I were booted out of the Malmaison bar as the hotel had been booked for a wedding and the bride, groom and assembled party obviously took precedence over us mere hotel guests. This would account for the paucity of waiting staff in the dining room and the fact that those of us eating there – those idiots who should have known better – were pretty much treated like leftovers on the plate of life.
A couple next to me had ordered some food which took so long to arrive (I am talking beefburgers here) that they asked if they might just be allowed to leave without bothering. Certainly not, the food was coming at any minute. And it did, and so did mine, which was inexplicably cold. Or lukewarm if I am to be accurate. I can only assume it had been left on the pass whilst the waiting staff were otherwise engaged with the wedding party.
I have to confess that I was fascinated by the sartorial mix of this bunch, especially the small boys, who wore kilts teamed up with black trainers. One little carrot-top glared about him every time he ascended (or descended for that matter) the spiral staircase by the bar, holding down his kilt and shooting venomous looks at those below.
But I digress. I ate a steak at the Mal and very good it would have been if a bit warmer. It was perfectly cooked and very tender. But not cheap. In fact, the hotel itself is not cheap and I used to be happy with this as it was still a pleasant experience. Now the rooms seem run-down, the service is sloppy and a TV that doesn’t even have Freeview channels in 2011 - for a room price well in excess of £100 - is just bonkers.
Two weeks later I found myself at the Royal Scots Club in Edinburgh. Arriving at lunchtime, I found that my room wasn’t ready so I waited in the very clubbish lounge. A upright Scottish lady sat on a large sofa opposite me, waiting for her husband to return from the bar with their drinks. An elderly gentleman made his way haltingly round another (empty sofa), and lowered himself down next to her – on top of her handbag. She leaped up, tugging the bag out from under him, and flew off towards the bar, looking back over her shoulder in horror. After he had cleared his throat a few times and smacked his lips (inexplicably), pebble-dashing everything in the vicinity with undigested matter (including me), I got up and moved with all my baggage – there was a lot of it, as it included work-related gubbins of various kinds.
Eventually the room was ready and it turned out to be at the furthest extremity of the building, in a labyrinth of doors, corridors and turnings. It was dark, dismal, smelled unbearably of stale cooking fat and the window wouldn’t open more than a crack. The bathroom had been designed for either a small child or a dwarf, so that I had to bend down to wash my hands (from the dizzy height of 5’ 2”). The corner bath was actually a slight depression, to accommodate a corner puddle. Was this some kind of water-saving exercise? If so, it was entirely successful as no-one three-dimensional would have attempted to bathe in the thing.
It took several attempts to find my way out and after walking round the city in the pouring rain for an hour, I returned to the Chip-fat Suite and rang reception. The large and lovely, softly-spoken man who had just taken over said he quite understood and would I like a room in the basement? – the only one left. By this time I would have been happy with an oubliette that didn’t smell like Harry Ramsden’s. I lugged everything out and down the stairs (unable to find the lift apart from the first time I went up in it – perhaps after that, it dematerialised?) and down to reception. The room in the basement was perfect, bright, airy, beautifully furnished and with a real bathroom and a real bath. Oh joy!
This travel lark is not what it is cracked up to be.
Having left North Yorkshire in a heatwave, I was unprepared for the Scottish weather having come without my waders and thermals. Nevertheless, I struggled out to find a watering-hole and had actually intended to eat at La Garrigue in the New Town. I stopped at ask directions from a lady in a frock shop who said, “Oh, I it’s round the corner if you want to go there.” The implication being that she would not. Could she recommend anywhere nicer? She could indeed, The Saint on St Stephen’s Street.
Congratulating myself on finding a hidden gem, I went in search of The Saint. I found it eventually, though its signage was so low-key that one would suspect it didn’t want to be found at all.
What can I say other than the reason some restaurants get awards is because they are better than others? The Saint had a lovely fire (which I am pretty sure was gas but a good imitation) and a lovely Australian waitress, but the food was mediocre. A soup that I think was said to be butternut squash, just tasted very sweet and was far too thick. Venison stew on mash with persillade was not quite what it said on the tin as the persillade was more like a small puddle of parsley-infused oil. The mash was all right, the stew was all right (though slightly over-seasoned), but you could eat better at home any night of the week. And the point of going out is that you eat better than you would at home, surely? The whole thing was just underwhelming, so I felt obliged to have another glass of wine to cheer me up. The bill was £33.80 for two courses and three glasses of wine.
Verdict: value for money - 7/10; service - 8/10; quality of food - 5/10.
On the train home, I was delighted to find that the all-day menu did not include the horrible Onion Bhaji Sandwiches. The staff tell me that these are “very popular” but I can only assume that a particularly high proportion of East Coast travellers are masochists. Or do the East Coast management have shares in drugs for diabetes treatment? Perhaps they are aliens who are attempting the downfall of the human race? There must be some explanation for the presence on the menu of these hideous comestibles. The whole idea of a sandwich made from cold fried batter with a bit of onion in it is not only bizarre and unhealthy but an insult to those of us who want a bit of value for money – who came up with this wheeze? They should be made to eat Onion Bhaji Sandwiches and nothing else for a week.
