Ship on the Shore Edinburgh
It takes some keeping up with all the restaurants in Leith. I'm told that within a 300 metre radius of the shore, there are around 30 restaurants and bars, a seething shoal of establishments, all basking in the flattering ripples emanating from the Michelin-starred establishments of Martin Wishart and Tom Kitchin.
Fishers, Skippers, Flippers (OK, this last one doesn't exist yet, but it's only a matter of time), and then there's The Shore and The Boat In The Sea that used to be called Cruz and is now called something Italian-ish, and the Ship On The Shore (as opposed to the ship in the water off the shore). So you get the drift; if you're out trawling among Leith's second division restaurants then you're sure to net the nautical theme.
The Ship On The Shore comes heartily recommended by discerning diners. It's a dapper little shoreside pub, most probably Victorian, that has retained much of its original interior. With its polished brass, snug wood panelling, etched glass, porthole-shaped cabin lights and miscellaneous seaside memorabilia, it effortlessly oozes an ambience that seaside restaurants frequently try to fake.
We walked in to the strains of Charles Trenet singing his marvellously nostalgic La Mer, which, much as I love it, was probably overdoing the marine theme a bit, but then when you look at the menu, there's no arguing with its Captain Pugwash credentials. The Ship On The Shore certainly brings the ocean to your plate.
The weakness, though, is that the provenance isn't adequately explained, and this is becoming essential for any specialist seafood restaurant because sustainability is a minefield these days. It was great to know that the mussels were from the Isle of Shuna, the rock oysters from Loch Creran, the scallops from Orkney and so on, but geographical tags don't tell us anything about fishing methods. They probably were, but I'd like it in writing, that the scallops were diver-caught, or the mussels rope-grown, not dredged.
Though chatty about its shellfish, the menu was pretty silent on its fish. The salmon was from Shetland - so probably farmed, unfortunately - which means that on environmental grounds, I don't really want to eat it. I love the idea of the cod with pea purée, the grilled halibut and the monkfish in Parma ham, but given that these are all species on the brink of collapse, I'd like to be convinced that these exemplars came from sustainable fisheries. Why tell diners more about the provenance of the ham than of the fish? Both skate and tuna appeared, but these are on the Marine Conservation Society's Red List of fish to avoid. Yep, I know it's hard for chefs to get a straight, unfuzzy answer from their fish suppliers, but there's an information deficit here that urgently needs addressed.
So we went for less controversial species - North Atlantic crab claws, Scrabster lobster, coley - and took a chance with the Ship's own seafood chowder.
The crab didn't disappoint but its saffron-lime mayonnaise did. Drop intact saffron strands into mayo and all you get is mayo with red bits. Toast it for seconds, grind in a mortar and pestle and mix with a little liquid, then you've got that marvellous bitter pungency and colour.
The chowder came up trumps though, its creamy thick weight just aromatised with smoked haddock but not bullying some spectacularly fleshy mussels and pale pink North Atlantic prawns.
The lobster was only let down by its rather crude presentation: some casually dressed red chard leaves and chips. A crustacean so splendid deserves a little more thought than that. The same reservation surfaced with the coley. A right-on species, it can never compete with prime species like turbot and cod so it needs help if it is to shine. It didn't, largely because the presentation was too plain. Its Thai curry sauce was reduced to little more than a bland, decorative dribble on the plate. Its accompaniments were tedium-inducing boiled spuds, fried carrots and blanched sugarsnaps. Vegetables here could do with some work. It's exciting to see black potatoes with mallard duck but why on earth serve summery asparagus with autumnal partridge?
A nice wine list from L'Art du Vin almost compensates for rather uninspired desserts, again bewilderingly unseasonal. Why serve poached, woolly-textured peaches in September when apples are literally dropping off the trees?