How do you describe food styles? Indian, Chinese, Thai, French, Italian, such tags are easy to understand, albeit too sweeping to reflect regional nuances. Vocabulary closer to home is trickier. “Seasonal”, “sustainable” and “local” are bandied around to the point of uselessness. “Scottish” comes with the last century baggage of faux tartanry aimed at gullible tourists. “Modern British” is provocative now that swathes of Scots are actively disinvesting in the “British” project. Might there be shelter in a one-size-fits-all “modern” tag? Unfortunately “Modernist” with a capital M has been claimed by the science lab crew- Heston et al, previously referred to as “Molecular” or “Avant Garde”- chef-poster boys for the chemical industry’s mission to make industrial additives and hi-tech ingredients (xanthan, maltodextrin etc) seem cool. For a while “Modern European” seemed to cut the mustard, but estranged from mainland Europe post-Brexit, do we qualify any longer for such a visa?

In the midst of this identity crisis, it makes sense to focus on the particular not the general. Newly opened Lovage in Edinburgh offers “seasonal contemporary cuisine” but quantifies this as follows: “one teaspoon local, one teaspoon European, then sprinkled with seasonal Scottish produce”. The chefs are Polish. Their food isn’t. Can I describe it? Now that’s a hard one. I detect that Eastern European fondness for foraging and an inbuilt awareness of what’s seasonally appropriate. Ingredients here are not tortured but allowed to speak for themselves. I revel in the fresh, clean digestibility of what sits on the plate. Dinner at Lovage leaves me feeling healthy and energised, not struggling with a dead weight in my stomach. And here are chefs who produce desserts that are undoubtedly indulgent yet not anachronistically sweet. That’s clever.

Cauliflower soup, not always an enticing option, confounds its naysayers, a patrician velouté where nutty brassica creaminess is pointed up with a swirl of nut-brown butter, toasted, crushed hazelnuts, fragile, buttery croutons, and fronds of vigorous dill. A starter, which looks tremendously pretty, is loosely described as “wild garlic, baby carrots, peas, lovage foam, pea shoots”. It centres on a savoury panna cotta rescued from obscurity by the kindergarten crunch of the juvenile carrots, the summery green broad beans, Parmesan wafers, the swirl of lemony wild garlic salsa verde, the dusting of vibrant green powder (parsley, perhaps?) and last but not least, the slightly bitter lovage foam, which captures the herb’s uncompromising, zesty celery personality.

There’s a welcome weighting towards vegetables at Lovage. Asparagus (char-grilled, Scottish, juicily fresh) has top billing on the plate, its supporting acts a deep wedge of crumbly pastry brimming with chalky, sharp goat’s cheese custard, and a ring of warm strawberries. Improbable-sounding, I know, but let me assure you, delightful. In a dish that centres on a fleshy, thick slice of grilled hake strewn with crisp, intense mussel tempura there’s a balancing cohort of plump green beans, laboriously skinned broad beans, and delicate pools of umami-rich terra cotta sauce (possibly roasted tomato). Even the modest pile of potentially monotone quinoa has been lifted by the addition of acid-sweet tomato flesh.

The same delicacy and strategic balance that directs the savoury courses extends to desserts, which are right up my street. Pitch-perfect, spherical, warm dark chocolate fondant oozes cacao-dense mousse into a purple blackcurrant fool where cream rounds out the berries’ full-frontal attack. In another dessert, the butterscotch-y chewiness of the honeycomb triangles is juxtaposed with a resin-like, lemony pine sorbet, a zingy gel that has an almost fermented lactic tang, a trace of coffee grained crumble, and a luxuriant almond cream. Neither pudding is excessively sweet. Both are feasts for the eyes and the tastebuds.

Lovage radiates that natural calm, simplicity and healthy good taste we often associate with Scandinavia. A solitary stencil of the eponymous herb is a nod towards decoration. Food is served on flecked, crack glazed stoneware in the gentlest, most natural shades. You’ll find this restaurant just off the Royal Mile, an area increasingly ignored by Edinburgh residents and dominated by visitors to the capital. Food this fine is much too good to be left to tourists.