Le Mouton Noir, Edinburgh - Restaurants in Edinburgh | s1play.com

Tales from the Dark Side

Review published on 14/01/2008 © Sunday Herald

On what I now refer to as my "black" Thursday, I set out to review the new Voodoo Rooms. The name sounded ominous, but I wanted to see what a new broom could do with the upper floor of Edinburgh's architecturally distinguished, 200-year-old Café Royal. I booked a table for 7.30pm and was told, in a tone that precluded negotiation, that they would need it back by 9pm, a rather short slot for a dinner. But by 7.40pm, I couldn't wait to leave the place.

It was tragic to see what a mess had been made of the interior, which really ought to be one of Edinburgh's most elegant restaurants. Instead, the new management seems to have only one idea, as if someone had nodded off listening to the Rolling Stones and woken up inspired: Eureka! Paint it black! Black walls, black tablecloths on the tiny, impossibly-cramped tables, a crepuscular entrance hall, spooky Halloween lettering on everything from the menu to the lampshades, a bouncer outside resembling an extra from Dracula – this is what you expect from a seedy casino. And, to add insult to injury, you have to eat crocodile and kangaroo cooked up by a chef whose main claim to fame is that he has cooked for minor celebs at MTV awards.

We had to say thanks, but no thanks, and headed across town, with a hint of desperation, to the newly opened Le Mouton Noir. I generally avoid restaurants that are branded French, however much I love the French and French gastronomy. They gave us the founding principles of cooking on which most up-market restaurants depend. But even when you eliminate the 'allo 'allo theme parks, I can't help thinking that French contempt for our lack of a native cuisine shows through in the calibre of French restaurants here. It makes their proprietors smug and lazy. They can get away with murder and few will notice because we are such suckers for that whole French thing. Besides, I've eaten enough bad baguette and salty onion soup to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.

Paint it black, take two. Le Mouton Noir is very black also. Its exterior is black, its napkins are black. Like the Voodoo Rooms, the demographic of the diners seemed skewed towards the female, with the dearth of males that you might expect in the event of a third world war. A mounting sense of déja vu was heightened by freakish menu offerings such as frogs' legs and ostrich, about as enticing as the wallaby, koala bear or whatever it was at the Voodoo Rooms. Tuna and skate I eliminated from my choice because they are both over-fished, endangered species – even in French waters.

Unenthusiastically, we made our selection. My mushrooms, chestnut and dried fruit terrine didn't turn up. Around us, other diners were sending dishes back either because they were wrong or unacceptable. Instead I had six small queen scallops whose taste was swamped by garlic and smoked salmon breadcrumbs. The other starter, the worst, most watery duck liver I have tasted, was served with half of a poached pear that might have been redeployed as a dessert. The bread was dire.

Main courses betrayed no signs of anything more than the most rudimentary cooking ability. A slice of arid aubergine baked with spinach, rubbery Comté cheese and wintry water bomb tomatoes, served with lolla rossa and rancid walnuts, is not appealing. Any thinking chef can appreciate that if raw scallops are kebabed with raw onions, you will get either raw onions or overcooked scallops. With this pallid skewered offering came yellow potatoes, said to be saffron-ed, and a surprisingly-palatable beurre blanc. Still, not a winner at £17.95.

By the time our desserts arrived, a tarte Tatin of sludgy-looking, under-caramelised apple on greasy, leaden puff pastry, and a pedestrian frangipane tart with chewy, undersoaked prunes, we could barely work up the enthusiasm to eat them. By this point, I had my fill of black establishments. It did leave me with one bright thought, however. If I ever had to earn a living abroad, I could always set up a dreadful restaurant and call it Scottish. Who knows, I might even get away with it.

© Sunday Herald