A hidden gem at Goldsborough

For years, my birthday treat was a day out in Helmsley and environs, including lunch at the Star in Harome. This year the visit came early, for another birthday treat, this time for a 90-year old. And excellent it was, too.

Much as I have enjoyed those stellar lunches, they may well be displaced by a new favourite. The tiny Fox and Hounds is a restaurant, despite its name, and is buried – like the treasure it is – in the aptly-named hamlet of Goldsborough, a mile or so inland from the rugged cliffs north of Whitby.

The sky was cerulean blue and the tide was out, so we donned our boots and walked from Runswick Bay. My memory of this walk was clearly faulty, or perhaps my weight has significantly increased since the last time I did it. Either way, it was uphill for almost the entire distance, and the phrase "uphill struggle" had real meaning by the time we trudged from the coastal path up yet another incline into Goldsborough. Hence, we were slightly late, but the welcome was warm and gracious.

The dining rooms are separate and small, with only three or four tables in each. There are ornaments dotted about and chairs have dinky cushions. The minimalism beloved of posh London restaurants is absent, and frankly I couldn’t care less one way or the other, but a bit of clutter does create a more comfortable atmosphere, at least to someone as untidy as I know myself to be.

Fellow diners were friendly and unstuffy, which is fortunate as mobile phones don’t work at Runswick Bay. Ten minutes after sitting down, one of ours trilled  loudly, to our great embarrassment, in response to messages left on voicemails earlier.  "Oh, can you get reception here?" commented another diner. "That’s useful to know." There is a lot about the Fox that is useful to know, in particular its existence, as well as the absolute need to book on the Friday and Saturday nights when it is open.

The menu is short, with three starters, three mains and three puddings. The wine list is much longer and features plenty of choice for those who are on a budget as well as those who like to splash out.

A kir royale came in a Yorkshire-sized glass, and had just the right amount of cassis. The French have a tendency to put too much in and create a kind of Ribena cocktail (despite the fact that they invented it), but the lighter touch of the F&H supplied the necessary hint of blackcurrant without overpowering the end result. A basket of bread, with a bowl of olive oil, was put on the table and disappeared too quickly. I tried to save a slice to eat with my first course but the competition for it was too fierce. I assume it was home-made and I forgot to get a recipe, but it was bread of the highest order and the utmost deliciousness. It wasn’t dinky, either.

Dinkiness returned in the form of a perfectly-trimmed lamb cutlet served in a small soup plate. Every scrap of fat or gristle had been meticulously cleaned from this, leaving a nugget of perfectly-cooked, succulent lamb, slightly charred on the outside, pink and juicy within. This sat happily in a nest of long beans, thankfully not al dente (aka half raw) dressed with tomato and with a slick of tapenade and other goodies which I neglected to note down as I was too busy devouring them.

The Fox obviously sets out its stall as something of a seafood establishment as fish is well-represented on its menu. So we could have had sea trout – a favourite of mine, and a fish only seasonally available in the summer. Perversely, we both went for the fillet steak, which came with chips and grilled radiccio. Normally I would eschew a fillet steak as the flavour seems to me to be inferior to that of rump, but I had heard good reports of the Fox’s steak and I was intrigued.

If this review seems hurried, it is because I have been waiting impatiently to revisit that steak. Words are poor things compared with the physical delights of flavour bursting on the tongue, and it seems to me that the words required to do justice to that piece of meat have yet to be created.

The outside of it was crusty and charred, seasoned to perfection. The knife passed through it to reveal rosiness, juiciness and the promise of succulence. The flavour was sublime, the texture tender, the skill in cooking it to the exact degree requested unquestionable. The chips were lovely as well, big fat brown ones, and the radiccio provided just the right bitter counterpoint to their crispy, starchy blandness.

Compliments proffered to restaurant staff on such (rare) occasions may be met with gratitude, smugness or sometimes just downright apathy. This time they were met with modesty – the cooking was all that could be taken credit for, the raw materials themselves were the star of the show. And the Foxy lady was happy to pass on the details.

The raw material in this case was supplied by Taste Tradition of Thirsk, who produced both the dinky lamb and the Dexter beef which was so outstanding. I have made it my business to find out how I can secure some of that material for myself – if only to ensure that less of it goes to the likes of Messrs Ramsey and his ilk, many miles to the south of where it should be rightfully consumed.

When we finally gain independence here in Yorkshire, we will slap an export levy on this beef and it will end up being smuggled out of the county as top-class contraband. I will personally volunteer to patrol the border and seize any unlawful Taste Tradition product (and eat it). I have no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before right-thinking people from the benighted South would be making applications for citizenship as a result.

But I digress: we concluded with a dense and delicious chocolate tart with espresso cream, a sliver of indulgence that provided a real chocolate hit without being overly sweet.

Now, throughout the whole dinner, there was none of your foams and smears, your plateside fripperies of sprinkles and dashes and dots and dabs of things that take forever to make and are hardly noticed. Things that are credited on the menu and gazed at, bemused, by the diner who didn’t want them there anyway. Neither were there any "foraged" pignuts or weeds or roots, or any of the other stuff that people very sensibly gave up eating a long time ago in favour of proper vegetables that haven’t been peed on by someone’s dog, covered in pesticide by the Council, or just taste plain rank.
Take note - if you want to sit in a "minimalist" dining room that looks and feels like the canteen at Pentonville, be sneered at by a supercilious and ignorant waiter, and pay over the odds for a plate of unidentifiable culinary haberdashery, this is not the place for you.

In brief: this place serves a short menu of food that you really want to eat, in portions which are adequate without being mean or overlarge, and made from ingredients that are superlative. Every course is delicious. The service is unfussy, welcoming and extremely helpful (and my only quibble with it was that I like to keep the bottle of wine on the table rather than having it poured for me, but I am aware that this is a somewhat curmudgeonly criticism). I will conclude by remarking that if I win the Euromillions rollover, I shall be making the team at the F&H an offer they can’t refuse and moving them within walking distance of where I currently reside.

I believe the bill was around the £120 mark (though I should not have asked, being the birthday girl), and included two aperitifs, three courses and a bottle of red wine.

Verdict: value for money - 10/10; service 9/10; quality of food - 10/10

Love at first sight

Clos Maggiore, Covent Garden, London

Gushing reviews about how romantic it is have been putting me off this place for a long time. As a lone female diner, being surrounded by couple gazing fondly into each other’s eyes – or even worse, engaged in suggestive arm-stroking and throaty giggles - makes  me want to get up and pour the contents of my water carafe over the lot of them. So I have walked past Clos Maggiore many times and never even looked at the menu.

On a raining night in January with the street outside dug up and blocked with wooden partitions, it looked just unromantic enough for me to swipe the very last table from under the noses of two  ladies  (possibly romantically-entangled, but probably not) who followed me in through the  cramped and cave-like doorway. I was just wishing I had borrowed a head-lamp from my own Compleat Angler back at home in the Northern wilds when a charming waitress emerged from the gloom to guide me. The tables at Clos Maggiore are draped with linen so luminously white that it almost made up for  someone having forgotten to pay the electric bill.  I’m not sure about the plastic box hedging though. When my eyes had got used to troglodyte living, I was childishly delighted by the twinkling little lights (OK, could have done with more of them),  the general air of quiet efficiency and the lovely fireplace – flames dancing – which unfortunately disappeared from view once I sat down.

The service was charming (not quite faultless as they forgot my aperitif and had to be reminded) and efficient. The bread was lovely bread , fresh-baked, moist crusty and both the focaccia and plain while roll were better than I bake at home. (What a blow.)

The set earlybird menu starter was young chicken with stuffed baby artichokes – I see that I managed to write “mushroomy, earthy, pan juices –“ and nothing else, before gobbling the whole thing up greedily. I do remember that the chicken was beautifully moist.

A main course of belly of lamb  (which looked more like breast to me) had been  rolled and almost all of the fat cooked almost out. The notes say “ unctuous, soft shreds of delicious meat, deep flavour, beautifully presented, chickpeas firm, good counterpoint to soft meat,  carrots, tomatoes, tenderstem broccoli”.  I have to admire my own self-control in managing to write that much before falling on the food.

I resisted the pudding and any extras as I wanted to see how the set two-course menu performed without any added frills, in terms of value for money. It included half a bottle of wine, and with a glass of Prosecco to start, the bill came in at £29.95 including service.  A bargain in my opinion –though I wouldn’t come on Valentine’s Night (or not without a hosepipe).

33 King Street, Covent Garden, WC2E 8JD  Tel : +44 (0)20 7379 9696

Feeling virtuous in Leeds

Create, Leeds

A Christmas dinner special and I am always a bit suspicious about these, generally preferring the usual offering - Christmas is not just a time for goodwill to all men, but to all menus. Restaurateurs take advantage of this shamelessly, it seems to me.

On this occasion I was happily surprised. I have to say that this was one of the most pleasant and enjoyable dining experiences I have had in Leeds for years.  In fact, it was one of the most enjoyable full stop – this little place would hold its own easily in the capital for the quality of its food, though perhaps it would be sneered at for its lack of sophistication. And it is none the worse for that. As a Yorkshirewoman, there is no way that I am going to pay extra for something as intangible and downright poncy as sophistication in its own right. It needs to have value added, which is to say, bells, whistles, posh décor and free stuff like amuse bouches.

The latter were in short supply at Create but the mainstream stuff on offer was just the ticket. The food was described succinctly and without frills. Five of us sat down to eat and every single one was happy – not a single complaint on the table. Soup was creamy, mushroomy, chestnutty – Christmassy! Then I had duck breast, which can be hit and miss (over or under cooked) but was pink perfection, moist, deeply flavoured, enough to make a veggie faint. But rested to a T – no tell-tale red juices (aka blood) leaking out onto the plate to soggify the wonderful fat chips, real potato crisply and perfectly cooked. Plates were beautifully dressed  and not overloaded but portions were perfect . I pigged out on the side dishes (sumptuous pureed root vegetables were irresistible) and couldn’t manage a pud on my own but extra spoons were supplied for scavengers to raid the plates of friends (who are still, amazingly, on speaking terms). The pudding plates tasted simply sooper and looked a treat, from old-fashioned ice-creamy sundaes to creamy flan - which tasted as good as it looked. 

Choices on the Christmas menu were limited but staff were happy to allow mix and match with the a la carte. We went in feeling virtuous and charitable, but came out feeling as though we had definitely had the best of the bargain.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 8/10 quality of food 8/10

More French leave

La Petite Auberge, Rouen

This was my first visit to Rouen and I was blown away by the medieval buildings - and the wonderful little alleyways and doorways like this one. Though true to form, most of the most impressive buildings seemed to be swathed in scaffolding and in the process of renovation. Or shut. They obviously knew I was due to arrive, possibly acting on information from Tourist Information in Rome, where we were told the Coliseum was not due to re-open until the day we had left. (Sneakily, they opened it the day before. But I had staked it out, having got the measure of the disdainful Romans and this, combined with the Lawn Ranger’s eagle eye - “there’s people in there!” he cried - ensured we were amongst the barbarian hordes invading the place yet again. But this time armed with nothing more warlike than a Roma Pass.)

La Petite Auberge initially looked unpromising, one in a row of restaurants that had a distinct feel of the tourist trap about them. But we only just managed to get a table as they were almost fully booked, and almost every other diner turned out to be a local, or French, at any rate The exception was a very nice American family sitting at the next table, who were completely bewildered by the menu. I translated and saw their looks of horror and incredulity at some of the dishes on offer (salad of duck giblets? Seriously?). Their youngest son only ate chips, or rather, French fries, to the equal incredulity of the staff. But they gave him his plate of French fries without demur.

The exterior was all ancient timbers, painted in shades of ochre and rust, and the interior was typically French, with dark beams, old wooden tables crowded together and spotless white cloths and napkins. Service was relaxed, and we had plenty of time to pore over the menu over a couple of kirs. I decided on the 20 euro offering whilst the Ex went for the 24. Both offered four courses and plenty of choice, even for the faint of heart.

My bowl of fish soup was good - OK it was probably bought in, but so what? The tiny bowl of aioli packed a garlicky punch; whatever might go wrong with the rest of the night, I wouldn’t be worrying about vampires. Croutons and grated gruyere completed the traditional ‘garniture’ and it is one that always feels deeply satisfying when it is done properly. As it was here.

On the other side, a huge plate of crevettes flambees didn’t arrive in flames and they didn’t set me on fire either – they may have been recently flambéed but they had been already cooked beforehand, and the effect was to toughen them. The shells appeared to have been stuck on with superglue, (that second cooking again) and it would have been much better to have served a smaller portion but cooked them fresh. Having said that, the sauce they were swimming in was perhaps a little over-salty, but it was satisfyingly prawny and the base of shellfish and tomato really shone through. The Ex was struggling to peel them, as his fingernails were not up to the job. This reminded me of an occasion some years before when he had been wounded by a lagoustine; the blood had spurted alarmingly out of his pierced finger in front of a dining room full of French families. None of whom seemed off-put in the slightest.

A confit of duck was full-flavoured and falling off the bone, which again, was as it should be. Pommes Sarladaise were lying limply in a visible pool of duck fat, which was not. The other side of the table had ordered entrecote grille, which was pretty ordinary and slightly tough, despite having been belted soundly with a meat tenderiser. It came with frites and a pixie-sized mound of what looked like cooked chopped tomatoes. French restaurants seem to have an antipathy to vegetables other than green salad, though every market is a cornucopia of the most wonderful fruit and veg imaginable. Where do they all go? The five-a-day thing is ignored completely and a vegan would starve, if he or she had not been stoned to death first, and put out of their misery by the carnivorous locals.

The Beaujolais Villages was slipping down nicely, and there was still a glass each left when cheese time arrived. The French habit of serving the cheese before the dessert is such a sensible idea for that very reason. The cheeseboard was excellent, with all the usual suspects available and in perfect condition. A very smelly Camembert was deliciously oozy, for example. A well-dressed green salad came as well, and then dessert was offered.

Feeling like Mr Creosote, I watched as the Ex scoffed down a gateau de riz (I always think rice pudding cake is a very odd idea but this one was said to be perfectly acceptable). I passed on coffee but had an Armagnac. The bill came in at 74 euros which was pretty staggering considering what had been consumed, and the fact that this was a restaurant in a big tourist destination, on the main drag. Not a faultless meal by any means, but a very creditable one in terms of value.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 8/10 quality of food 7/10



Le Cabestan, 70 Rue du Port, Granville

The day was glorious, more like May than November; it was Sunday on a bank holiday weekend, and a trip to the seaside was irresistible. In Britain, the seafront would be lined with what in Yorkshire are called ‘tat’ shops, ice cream parlours and amusement arcades, with people trailing around them like lemmings looking for a cliff. But this was France, and the restaurants down by the Granville quayside were patrolled by anxious, hungry French of all ages and sizes, all walking up and down from one to another trying to read the menus and cartes displayed outside.

There was an air of controlled panic: if we each found the one, the menu offering the perfect combination of entrée and main course, would we have left it too late and discovered that everyone else on the same mission had got there first and filled the place?

Only when safely seated at the table, stake claimed and occupied, could we all relax. Le Cabeston was chosen simply on the basis that it was the only one offering fresh mackerel as a special and that seemed particularly appealing on this particular day. This restaurant, like most on the seafront in France, survives mainly on its fishy offerings. Unlike most of the others on the same frontage, it is unashamedly modern in décor and style. But the menu was traditional. There were oysters, mussels, both brown crab and spider crab, fish and shellfish of all descriptions and huge plateaux de fruits de mer.

So of course I chose the fish soup. After all, it was a full two days since I had last eaten any and withdrawal symptoms were well developed. (In fact, I knew that I would not be back in France again for some time and needed to get my full fish soup fix.) I also wanted the mackerel and this meant ordering from the carte, rather than a fixed menu, not something I do much in France as the latter usually offers much better value for money.

The fish soup came with the usual grated cheese, croutons and a version of rouille/aioli that was less garlicky than the Rouen version but just as good. The soup itself was even better, with a definite bisque-like quality and even greater depth of flavour. (Possibly the best fish soup I have ever eaten was at Corrigan’s in Mayfair when it had only been open for a week. I went back two months later and ordered it again, only to be disappointed, as it seemed to have been watered-down. The portions on both occasions were tiny. But I digress.)

The Ex had chosen an odd-sounding starter of baked eggs with smoked fish. After talking in a saintly manner about eating lightly, the dish arrived and it was huge, with two baked eggs and a combination of smoked salmon and smoked haddock. He ate the lot, and wiped the plate with bread. I didn’t try any as I am an eggophobe, or whatever the word is. But as eggs go, it certainly went.

We had both ordered the mackerel with mustard sauce.

A whole small fish arrived, well-cooked, meaty and fresh. The mustard sauce was a little sharp and the whole was perhaps very slightly over-salted (I minimise my use of salt and accordingly am very sensitive to it). The plate was garnished with a perfectly cooked, turned saffron potato, and a little timbale of carrot topped with shredded leek, which was flavoured with a hint of curry spices. Vegetables! But not as we know them. Possibly better than we know them, if a little over-seasoned.

All the way through, service had been impeccable. A slim, energetic dark-haired waitress zipped about the room, full of cheerful energy, taking orders, serving food, checking that everyone was happy. She clearly loved her job and the whole room felt the benefit. We were in the hands of professionals who enjoyed their work.
The desserts on offer were a bit of an afterthought, being mainly ice creams, a dessert du maison and a patisserie du jour – tarte Tatin. I ordered the latter and the Ex the speciality of the house. It turned out that I had been pipped to the last slice of the tarte so was proffered a charlotte au chocolate as the booby prize. This was delicious, the rich, dark chocolate mousse encased in a sponge both moist and light at the same time. It was the work of a moment to make it disappear without trace. I was a very happy booby.

The house speciality dessert was warm caramelised fruit in a caramel sauce, served with Chantilly cream and a scoop of coffee ice cream. It met with a somewhat unenthusiastic response, though every scrap disappeared from the plate. The desserts did rather let the whole lunch down, being a bit pedestrian in terns of choice.

Two tiny coffees, aromatic and string, completed a good lunch and one that came in at around 75 euros – the set menus were better value and offered three and four courses for 20 and 24 euros, if I remember rightly.

Le Cabestan, rue du Port, Granville (no website)

Verdict: value for money 7/10 service 9/10 quality of food 7/10



Le Broche D’Argent, Ouistreham, Caen

I have eaten here before, but there were indications that it was under new ownership.

I had hopes: they were dashed. Especially when my Bearnaise sauce arrived in a little pot so frigid that it numbed my fingers. When I complained, it was borne away with an expression of distaste, microwaved and brought back without a hint of an apology. A place to avoid. Car ferry terminals generally are, but the fault of eternal optimism will prevail.

Can’t kick the habit! Pasta Plus again

Back in London, I could not resist another visit to my beloved Pasta Plus which could not have provided more of a contrast. This little gem is tucked down by the side of Euston station, in what appear to be unpromising surroundings. The proximity of ‘adult stores’ and massage parlours can be the only reason this family-run restaurant is not packed every lunchtime and evening. This may be changing now, as it was full to bursting the last time I was there. I eat here almost every time I am in the capital, though I always feel I should be trying new places. But the lure of Pasta Plus is hard to resist; it is the culinary equivalent of getting into a hot, deep bath when the rain is falling outside and the wind howling, and you have had a hard day.

To the first-time diner, the restaurant initially appears a little stark and unwelcoming, with an uncluttered interior, no tablecloths (and certainly none of the red check variety) and only a few monochrome photographs on the walls. But every surface is spotless and shining, seats are surprisingly comfortable, and in the summer the tables at the bottom end of the restaurant look down to a tiny garden bright with red geraniums. Now, after countless visits, I see the lights shining out onto the grubby pavement and hurry towards them thankfully. Once I toiled along the road, footsore and grumpy at the end of a particularly irksome day, to find the place was shut; I almost burst into tears on the pavement. (They had gone on holiday, the thoughtless creatures.)

Having pigged out on croissants and toast on the train down, I felt that a reasonably healthy starter was called for, so opted for the tomato bruschetta. The tomatoes were as tomatoey as they can possibly be in November, the crisp, freshly-toasted bread had been rubbed with garlic and liberally dribbled with good olive oil, and the portion was big enough to satisfy a Yorkshirewoman. Having now had a couple of my five-a-day (I was counting the rocket on the bruschetta) I turned to the signature Tagliatelle Zia Teresa with the appetite of the just. I was not disappointed. I have eaten this dish at least a dozen times (possibly more) but I still love the combination of the finely chopped, caramelised onion, tiny slivers of button mushroom and the saltiness of the pancetta, all embraced smoothly by the saffron cream sauce, generously anointing the pile of tagliatelle, topped off with a couple of spoons of grated parmesan. (I considered a healthy side salad but rejected it; it would have been a distraction.)

I confess to never having had a pudding at Pasta Plus. I am convinced that if I had ever eaten one, I would have been happy with it, but unless there is something really sinful on offer, I can usually resist the temptation. This is one reason why I have never looked at their dessert menu: there may well be puddings at PP requiring many hours of penance, and if I were to try one I might then be tempted eternally. So I have always thought it better not to begin. But one day when I have lost all belief in the worth of a waistline, I may well start to order a dessert.

Service was helpful, charming, friendly and efficient. Most evenings the front of house duties are divided between the mother and daughter team, but the last time I visited, both were on hand to supervise the occasionally diffident (but always friendly) young Italian waiters. Dad is in the kitchen and sends up plate after plate of unfailingly consistent food.

With a glass of Prosecco and two of the house wine, and including the service charge, the bill came in at just over thirty quid. Two restaurants in two capital cities within the same fortnight, but what a difference in atmosphere and quality of service. I have only one problem with this little place, as I have said already - I can’t tear myself away as it is a real home from home. One last point to mention – as a lone female diner (often), I always feel welcome here, unlike some much more expensive and pretentious outfits where I have sometimes felt like a carrier of bubonic plague.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 9/10 quality of food 9/10

Roman Holiday

We flew into Leonardo da Vinci airport (aka Fiumicino) on the tail of a terrific thunderstorm, and arrived in the city to find shopkeepers sweeping water out of their doorways. The Coliseum was flooded, and a small, lopsided handwritten notice on the entrance declared that it was “closed, due to unforeseen circumstances”. I had a temper tantrum and felt like biffing one of the centurions hanging around the place (trying to persuade everyone to have their photos taken with one of the Ninth Legion – one had a bit of orange feather boa on top of his helmet). The Lawn Ranger was calm as always, and said it all looked in very good nick considering how old it was, and he was sure there wasn’t much inside anyway.

Fortunately for us, the apartment we had rented was on the third floor and not in a basement. Unfortunately for us, the word “apartment” was not an accurate description, as it consisted in total of an en-suite bedroom and a balcony. The “kitchen” was a fridge in a cupboard with a two-burner gas ring on top and a sink next to it. The bathroom was bizarre, almost the same size as the bedroom with a huge washbasin big enough to wash a ten-year old in, a loo and bidet, and a miniscule shower that dribbled tepid water one minute, scalding the next, and then an ice-cold jet. As it turned out, the weather was so warm that we spent most of our time there worn out from sight-seeing, and sitting on the balcony overlooking the neighbours’ gardens.

When in Rome...so we tried to do as the Romans do, eating in a local restaurant in a residential area rather than a tourist trap. As the apartment happened to be in a residential area, the one we were told was the best turned out to be literally round the corner. La Carbonara (no, not the one in Campo de’ Fiori) was tucked away on the Via Panisperna, its modest frontage belying the size of the interior, which stretched back deep inside the building. Inside it was traditional, with a lot of dark wood, and not very comfortable chairs. The walls were literally covered with handwritten comments, cartoons and signatures – a very good excuse for never decorating again. (Might try it at home, if I can ever get the anaglypta off the walls.)

After too much breakfast, we had been careful about lunch and just eaten paninis, but we failed to resist the lures of the gelateria and overdosed on triple scoops (yummy, but surprisingly filling). So neither of us could manage an antipasti. The menu featured dishes that never appear on your friendly neighbouring trattoria in Torquay, and there was no English translation. Neither was there time for speculation or, it appeared, explanation, as the staff did not regard patience as a virtue. After agonising over a whole section of apparently interesting main courses, only to discover from the stern-faced servitor from hell that they all featured tripe, we both opted for pasta.

I went for the eponymous carbonara as it seemed the obvious choice, and the Lawn Ranger went for a shape of pasta I had never seen before with a sauce of tomato, Italian sausage and peppers, which he said was delicious. In the interests of accuracy, I checked out his assessment with a forkful, and I can vouch for its veracity. The carbonara was good but not a million miles better than some I have had in the UK, which was a disappointment, but maybe I have just been eating in all the right Italian restaurants.

Couple of cowards that we were, we bottled out on the tripe and ordered scallopine with a Marsala sauce. The veal was tender enough, but its flavour was indeterminate; the lake of sauce which smothered it was over-seasoned and acidic, tasting as though white wine had been added as well as the Marsala and then not sufficiently cooked off. A shared Tiramisu (OK, a cliché but almost unavoidable in this situation) was again, perfectly acceptable, and with a good espresso kick, but was otherwise unremarkable.

Inoffensive if not memorable food, and the bill was very reasonable (for a capital city) at about 65 euros for two of us, including a bottle of Montepulciano (not the wine already place on the table, which the sommelier was trying to bully us into having). But the whole experience was let down by service that was impatient and peremptory. It was a Saturday night and the place was packed with regulars (we had booked a table the night before) so one could understand that they would want to have a second (or at this rate, even a third) sitting, but we definitely felt rushed and not particularly welcome.

The pressure to order meant that there was no chance of a leisurely aperitif, let alone a thorough study of the menu. We were in at 7 pm but out in the street well before 8.30, feeling a sense of anti-climax. A couple of Aussies at the next table (the only non-Italians in the place apart from us) were clearly terrified of the waiters, especially the dominatrix of a sommelier, and scuttled out into the night, puddingless, even earlier than we did.

Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 3/10 quality of food 7/10

La Carbonara, Via Panisperna 214, 00184 Roma.
Tel: 06 482 5176

North of the border - Glasgow and Edinburgh

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.