Fifi & Ally Glasgow

Style and Substance

Fifi and Ally, so its website says, is a "magnet for the stylish shopper", not an observation that automatically makes me bond with the brand. I'm not quite sure how to take it. Does it mean that I have to look stylish while shopping? In which case, dream on.

I don't find anything retail the least therapeutic. That Pretty Woman-style shopping experience, with the limitless credit card and the fistfuls of designer carrier bags to show for it, is an alien concept. More likely, I'm hot and bothered and scruffily dressed, looking ineffectually for new kit while simultaneously cursing the deadening homogeneity of what's on offer.

But there is something about Fifi And Ally that I do like, frothed up with all that girly, cup-caked, ladies-who-lunch "lifestyle" thing. The eponymous ladies go for "artisan and beautifully crafted products", quite logically, "in limited edition runs", and they extend that logic to the food they serve. Now here my ears perk up.

Before trying out its newest restaurant, my sole experience of Fifi And Ally was in its cramped, cosy Princes Square café. Here, foot-sore, I sought refuge in a pot of properly made loose-leaf Darjeeling tea, and a wedge of homespun coffee walnut cake.

The newer Wellington Street venture couldn't be more different. Striking, certainly, a battle of the sexes clash between the masculine (brick walls) and the feminine (lampshades that look like ruched nylons). It's all very black. I reserve judgement. It could work if the place was always full, but it wasn't when we visited. On a sunny day, I might feel light-deprived in the gloom.

That said, this Fifi And Ally has a civilised atmosphere to it, one that is conducive to one's appreciation of the well-sourced and well-cooked food it serves. The food offerings are intelligently chosen, largely low-risk propositions which may not thrill, but equally can scarcely fail.

Having got to grips with the bread, so serving a crust worth eating, they have teamed it up with safe bet ingredients like artisan cheeses, judiciously selected meats - no Danish "Milano" salami here, thank heavens - to produce a flurry of decent sandwiches and tartines. There are straightforward soups and substantial salads, none of them revolutionary, but all the sort of food that leaves you feeling better rather than worse.

Smoked haddock chowder was generous on the fish, and not sickeningly creamy - a common fault. A starter of Piedmontese peppers, which, if served with bread, would have been large enough to constitute lunch, was a good stab in the right direction, only let down by a prevailing vinegariness that could have come either from the anchovies or the olives.

None of this was taxing for the kitchen. A better indication of cooking level was the pan-fried organic chicken breast stuffed with ricotta and chervil. The breast was still moist, the skin crisp, the stuffing intriguingly savoury. Someone had gone to the bother of making a proper chicken gravy. On this sat impeccably braised chicory, its bitterness balanced by the sweetness of little carrots and peas. Dishes centred on chicken breast are almost always dull. This wasn't.

At £13.95, the open boards sounded scarily expensive, until we realised that one would easily serve two. Our Moroccan platter was all home-made: hummus, smoky aubergine babaganoush, a free-flowing pearl tabbouleh, a roasted pumpkin salad, cucumber and mint yogurt and piles of warm, yeasty flatbread with addictively oven-blistered corners.

A groaning counter of cakes jostles for attention with desserts. Kir Royale jelly, essentially a champagne jelly surrounded by stewed blackcurrants, was a lovely idea and its accompanying vanilla ice cream was one of the smoothest and silkiest I have ever tasted. Too much gelatine had done for its wobble though. The same applied to an otherwise likeable almond pannacotta which came with a lip-smacking, chunky red fruit compote.

Front of house staff are noticeably nice here, and accommodating. The wine list is the opposite of prosaic and many bottles are available by the glass, so encouraging experimentation. Reasonably priced too, which keeps the bill down. On the other hand, there's the luxurious Champagne afternoon tea at £26. Give me that over five t-shirts from Primark any day.

© Sunday Herald