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Restaurant Review: Cromlix House: The Late Late Lunch Show Lives Up to Expectations

Posted on: Monday, 13 December 2004, 09:00 CST

Cromlix House, Kinbuck, by Dunblane, Perthshire (01786 822125)

As you are sure to have realised, just by looking in the mirror, our readers are an educated, discerning bunch. The sort of people who can, and do, point out nefarious practices with the subjunctive and a wilful disregard of the gerund. And that's before the exchange of information regarding the weaving techniques favoured by King Malcolm's court, or the doubtful derivations of marmalade. So when I received a charming invitation from the Stirling Literary Society to address their esteemed company about the joys of restaurant writing, I felt a sudden chill in my midriff region - the area where my lily- tinged liver cowers. As Abraham Lincoln convinced me: "It is better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool, than open it and resolve all doubt."

So I kept the invitation on my desk for several days just in case I suddenly transformed into the sort of person who could easily entertain a daunting crowd of connoisseurs, whose knowledge of pease pudding and purple prose was likely to far outstrip my own. The transformation did not occur. And the dithering made all plausible excuses untenable - so there remained only one option. The old steamie gambit.

Not a managerial manoeuvre that had been much applauded, as yet, but one which my former husband developed as a prospective Tory councillor, back when he was in his twenties and the Tories still had some prospects. An old "steamie" wash-house was scheduled for demolition in Edinburgh, and protests had been lodged. "It would be cheaper to buy everyone who still uses the steamie their own washing machine, than to keep the place open," Mr Naive Enthusiasm told his hecklers. And they took it to heart. He could scarcely nip out for a newspaper thereafter without someone demanding when exactly their washing machine was going to be delivered. In the same dubious manner, I decided that a large number of people could be spared unnecessary anguish if those who really wanted to know about restaurant reviewing joined me in a restaurant for a review. After meticulous calculation (and a glance through my recent hate mail) I decided the number involved was two. At most.

Thus I arranged to meet two complete strangers in the opulent surroundings of Cromlix House Hotel, near Dunblane. Of course, this being an arrangement of my own devising, a whole fresh catalogue of catastrophes was about to begin. Suffice it to say, that for reasons involved with the very lowly application of high technology, I left Edinburgh an hour later than intended, and in order to avoid roadworks on the M9 approach road followed a route which appeared to include every side street of Dunfermline.

I blamed the navigator of course, and it was she who had the task of phoning the hotel and advising them that we weren't entirely sure where we were or how much longer we would be there, but perhaps they could identify two ladies who looked as if they enjoyed a good read, and offer them a drink. There was a startled pause after this gobbledegook was relayed, though my own surprise at being asked to choose my lunch while searching for the A9073 was equally arresting.

We finally tumbled into Cromlix House just after 2pm, having asked our mystery guests to begin their meal without us. So I can't really tell you very much about the warm smoked salmon latkes beyond the rather esoteric note that they are traditional potato pancakes fried in oil for the Jewish festival of Hanukkah, to commemorate a miracle whereby one day's oil for the temple lasted for eight days. If my Jewish friends will forgive me, I rather prefer the miracle of turning the water into wine, as I was hoping the sommelier would perform something similar.

Sunday lunch at Cromlix House - a rambling gothic Victorian mansion - is priced at GBP 25 for three courses, and is served in a smallish dining room decorated in deep regal red. Rather remarkably, the price has not changed since 1997 - when my last visit convinced me that this was the perfect place for a leisurely traditional lunch.

Nothing has changed in that respect. Both the starters, the salmon latkes, and a towering feulitte of wood pigeon, were declared excellent by the literary ladies, and we almost applauded when the roast rib of Angus beef arrived - juicily rare, admirably tender and accompanied by a stove hat of feather light, crunchy Yorkshire pudding, roasted parsnips and carrots and a big dish of roast potatoes which the waiter left on the table in case we wanted more. Not a morsel remained on any plate. As the saying goes, this was Sunday lunch like mother thought she used to make it.

The puddings displayed even more artistry: a white chocolate and raspberry mousse with a raspberry sorbet and chocolate hazelnut brioche: a stunning assembly of intense flavour and icy surprise. And a compote of warm winter fruits baked with tamarind, which was served with an intriguing caramel and balsamic ice cream. The farmhouse cheese platter would have made a meal on its own.

We finished off with coffee and petit fours in front of the fire. I'd like to say we were discussing Proust or 18th century prose style, but in truth we were having much more fun. Which is how I remember Cromlix. With a cosy fondness rather than awe. Next time I may even remember how to get there.

The Bill Lunch for four, GBP 100, excluding drinks

Source: Scotsman, The

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