Culinary Impressions

Its breakfast time in the Elephant House, where I am told J.K. Rowling wrote her first book. I am sipping the first nigh undrinkable espresso I have had since landing. Simon and Garfunkel is playing while the largely young crowd eat scrambled eggs and bacon.

I have found it difficult to settle on a place to eat as I wonder the city streets. I can feel the built environment effecting me. I am accustomed to finding Cafés and bistros through large panes of glass, this is true elsewhere in northern Europe as well. Here the typically heavy facades with comparatively small windows offer little insight to the state of the venue. As I result I have found comfort with Gorge street on a few occasions. The first is a substitute for my beloved Burger Urge in Brisbane. All be it not quite as good, despite the “worlds greatest burgers” reference on the glass. It’s a phrase I feel cheapens any establishment. Thankfully,Wellingtons exercises some British modesty. Down I flight of stairs, young barristers with both local and foreign ascents, debate the latest interdependent album which one of them has just brought in and serve a rich espresso. Its time to get going…

… Lunch time. By chance I have rediscovered Broughton Street on which I had my first breakfast in a tiny bakehouse where I was treated to gorgeous coffee, accompanied by perhaps the most British dish I could imagine, a bacon roll with brown source. Just around the corner is the Broughton Deli (where I am seated now). Bright red tablet cloths with poker dots span a mix of tables, some with cast Victorian bases, others with a danish flavor. Its high ceilings and white walls contrasted with worn timber floors make for a positive space. The baguettes are delightful, served with a verity of fresh salads. More Swiss then Scottish, just as dinner last night had been more French then I had expected for a place described as “Edinburgh on a plate”. Le Café St.Honoré which can be found on North West Thistle Lane, seduces its dinners with soft jazz and dim lights. As I finish the ham hock with pea puree entrée, the Amelie soundtrack begins to play. Halibut with butter bean arrives at the table, the highlight of the meal. I wonder if the last dish aims to save the reputation of the restaurant by serving up Scottish fruit compote along side Crème brûlée? Delightful, but not Scottish. Perhaps I’ll find something regional tonight.