Get along to the new Seafood Restaurant of the year


Wherever chef Roy Brett goes he seems to pick up the accolade of Seafood restaurant of the year.

For the last two years he held the title at Dakota’s South Queensferry Hotel Restaurant where my daughter Amy works.  Now he’s gone and done it again at his own place.

The restaurant is named Ondine, after a mythological water spirit and reflects the emphasis on seafood and shellfish.

It’s a cool, chic and reasonably priced (for top end) place, located in the Missoni Hotel complex, and boasts one of my friends, Craig Grierson, as its Maitre D.

The recognition is not really a surprise given the slew of outrageously good reviews the restaurant has garnered since opening last year.

Clearly it’s worth a try and if your feeling particularly fishtastic you’ll want to head for the sumptuous crustacean bar for a real maritime treat.

4 thoughts on “Get along to the new Seafood Restaurant of the year

  1. Reminder of AA Gill chat with you on Saturday, Mark – not about Ondine, but Cucina (he also knew the maitre d’ of this joint)…..

    http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/eating_out/a_a_gill/article6827912.ece

    ….specifically this withering (a great word you used for Gill) description of those Embra “ladies” who dared share the same airspace as him…

    “I was reminded of Aunt Netta by the two ladies who sat at the table next to me at Cucina in Hotel Missoni. Actually, she would have pursed her lips at my sullying the appellation “lady” on them. They were everything she wasn’t. A pair of lunching, scarlet-gobbed, Botoxed, overweight over-forties, dressed in outfits that might have been appropriate on a 17-year-old Serb in a Mykonos disco. Billowing breast implants and sagging stomachs, spray-tanned, bubble-wrap thighs and french-polished toenails in gladiator sandals, jangling jewellery like kitchen utensils constructed solely out of interlocking logos. Their ferociously yellow blonded hair extensions and flabby faces with Marlboro Light-lined lips gobbing inanities, constantly dipping into gaudy handbags full of BlackBerries and iPhones and antidepressants. They were such a strikingly vulgar pair of brazenly Scottische trollopy jades. There is, in Edinburgh, a culturally cringing plagiarism, a fawning desire to take on English fashion, and in doing so, get it completely ass about tit. These two imagined themselves as up-for-it Wilmslow Wags and had achieved precisely the opposite effect. They stared at each other as comforting mirrors. “

    Like

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