Rhubarb, Edinburgh - Restaurants in Edinburgh | s1play.com

Tart report

Review published on 00/00/0000 © Sunday Herald

The wine list at Rhubarb, in the newly refurbished Prestonfield, formerly Prestonfield House, is almost as thick as a telephone directory. Descriptions within are florid. Aldo Conterno's Barolo is ''bequeathed with prodigal fragrances of crushed plum, fresh herbs, Indian spice a compelling pastiche of corpulent raspberry jam''

New-look Prestonfield has had £2 million spent on it and the decor is as overblown and curlicued as the prose style. The new owner, James Thomson, is to be congratulated on almost eliminating the tell-tale signs of a historic pile living off corporate functions and weddings. Personally, I find there is something of the bordello about it, an air of debauchery, like a venue for the Hellfire Club in a Hammer Horror film or Kubrick's millionaire orgy in Eyes Wide Shut. I admire the designers' thoroughness. But it is a curiosity.

Once is enough. On future visits, it would irritate. Practicality appears to have been sacrificed to visual impact. A table leg prevented me from eating comfortably, with two feet on the floor, adding to the impression that diners are merely actors on a stage set.

Prestonfield House used to be a salmon, steak and sticky toffee outfit. The food now is an improvement on that, but on current form, it isn't going to win any foodie gongs. Indeed, I wonder if there are technical problems in the kitchen and difficulties getting food to and from it. Some dishes were not hot enough and undercooking was a recurrent concern.

We began with the ubiquitous wild mushroom, truffle oil emulsion in the inevitable espresso cup, in this case, seriously over-salted. A terrine of duck liver and confit did not gel: the rugged dryness of the meat jarred with the smoothness of the liver and a dilute gewurztraminer jelly added nothing but watery liquid. The three tepid, plug-sized roasted squash ravioli with a pecorino mornay had not been boiled for long enough. You can take al dente too far. It was a mean-sized portion for anyone above size six, too.

Main courses though, were large and plentiful, encompassing various elements, more or less accomplished. My sea bream was pleasing, fresh, moist and crisp-skinned, but everything else on the plate was badly executed. The accompanying stew of crunchy, jelly-like squid in a rough, acidic tomato sauce was half-cooked. The fennel boulangere, seemed innocent of fennel, either fresh or seeds, and the potatoes were raw in parts and did not appear to have been seasoned. An up-market chicken with pedigree had been made into a sort of roulade with a stuffing so devoid of character its contents were imponderable. It too was overly pink inside. Melting leg was much better, and Alsace-style spaetzle noodle-dumplings made a welcome break from potatoes. But the aromas of tarragon and mustard promised by the menu proved elusive.

The desserts look rather dated, what with their twee little brandy snap baskets, squirts and squiggles, and incongruous garnish of half a strawberry, one lonely raspberry and two blueberries. Pastry on my prune and Armagnac tart was, you've guessed it, seriously underfired. Its solid almond frangipane tasted as though the sugar had been omitted by mistake, while the prunes were too firm and unyielding. There was a perfectly pleasant milky chocolate mousse, except that it was meant to be a dark one, under an ungainly disc of thick chocolate. With a nondescript Greek yogurt ice cream, this was arguably little better than a luxury supermarket offering.

Rhubarb seems like a restaurant where the kitchen is remiss in tasting and checking what it sends out. This is prototype cooking that could benefit from a few focus group sessions.

© Sunday Herald