| THE
SCOTSMAN |
DATE
UNKNOWN
|
RESTAURANTS
Gillian Glover
A new tactic for fighting the fat is put into practice
at the old Rock Cafe
Today,
as I have nothing too pressing to do, I thought I might address myself
to the great obesity debate. No. More than that. What I intend to do
is solve the obesity issue. Now, the new availability of the drug Xenical
(could this be cynical with an X-rating?) has prompted the gluttons
- sorry, gourmands and gourmets - among us to re-examine our enthusiasm
for food.
Do
we enjoy lavish candlelit suppers in the hope that they will add some
extra angling to our already turbo-charged, sculpted limbs?
I suggest
not.
Do
we eye up the dressing-drenched avocado and Hebridean scallops starter
because we seek a replacement activity after selflessly foregoing a
series of aerobic classes?
Doubtful.
So
could it possibly be the simple, delectable fact that a perfumed portion
of Lobster a l'Americaine (a hefty prawn cocktail meets Monica Lewinsky
sort of dish, served on an oval platter) does not sulk, it does not
answer you back, snore, nor remind you how great the 12-year-old waitress
looks in all that Lycra?
Yes,
professor. I think we've got it!
No
amount of Xenical, Ponderax or Ephedrine pills can replace the deep-velour
cuddle of a chunky slice of Mississippi Mud Pie. And of course we can
stop fighting its lugubrious embrace. But I have a better idea. We can
declare apartheid upon it.
Really.
Think about it. This redundant method of dealing with racial tension
can be rehabilitated in the full understanding to its true effect. From
now on we can abuse our food - both verbally, with cunningly sharpened
cutlery, and finally with the shocking acid baths which pass for digestive
encounters.
Where
once we cowered before that cream cake, now we can upbraid its evil
calorie count; we can prod and scour and humiliate its buttery buttresses
of icing, before demolishing the moist corruption of its heart. And
later (if we're not too tired) we can swallow the carrion corpse in
the dark, and enjoy the keen saucing of delayed shame.
I promise
you this will be much more fun than any diet.
So
I hope you are able to appreciate the effort I made to visit yet another
restaurant when there is so much enthralling activity in the Fat Zone.
Nonetheless, my midriff and I had noticed the prising off of shutters
at the bottom of Howe Street in Edinburgh - the site of the old Rock
Caf� - now reborn as A Room in the Town, its Rock hall of fame mural
ruthlessly rollered into oblivion by a tide of yellow distemper.
And
why not? It clearly has established its own hall of fame, as the person
who answered the phone was extremely doubtful about the likelihood of
a table at 7:30pm on a Tuesday night. He relented only after he had
"rearranged his sums" and found us a perfect, window-lit little corner
from where to view the cheerful ongoing mayhem. A Room in the Town does
not yet have a licence - a circumstance greeted with considerable enthusiasm
by the locals if one can judge from the array of Oddbins carrier bags
among the stern school chairs. But we were not there to speculate about
drinking habits, we were there to prove that the food demon could be
vanquished in all its forms. So we started by routing a roasted quail
with cherry brandy sauce (�4.50) and some poached fillets of lemon sole
(�3.95). Honestly, you would have been proud of the way we annihilated
these tempters. Even though I had to punish the sole with singular brutality
- so soft, and sweet and utterly delicious was it. Only the quail fought
back. Tense jawed and a touch stringy. It did its duty for as long as
two inches of frail poultry can when up to its ankles in brandy-laden
sauce.
But
we were merciless. A plate of baby-pink lamb wearing a herb and peppercorn
bonnet and resting on a cushion of fluffy minted cous cous (�9.45) was
viciously taunted for its youthful vanity, while a lasagne of monkfish
and scallops (�11.50) was lulled into a false sense of security by a
shower of compliments before being savagely devoured right down to its
last shred of parsley.
"I
feel strong as a lioness," said my fellow food thug. "From now on I
intend to be the dominatrix of dinner." She proved it by demolishing
a rather stodgy piece of pecan pie. Something I might have suggested
was beneath her claws, but at "2.95, this didn't matter too much. Nor
did the anxious glances from the waiter. He had recognised our terrifying
regime, I'm sure. And I was certain, that as soon as we had paid the
modest �40 bill, he'd tell us precisely when our fearlessness would
be rewarded by those to size 10 bodies we had demanded along with the
hors d'oevres.
�
about
us | menus
| reviews | where
are we ?
get in touch
| home
