Plenty of buzz but where's the sparkle?

Princes Street, Edinburgh

0131 222 8975

Dinner £24-£68

Food rating 6/10

WHEN I first reviewed the Pompadour in 2012, it blew my mind. It had just been taken under the wing of chef-restaurateurs Jeff and Chris Galvin, consummate professionals whose name reliably prompts approving responses from the crustiest food critics. With Craig Sandle appointed as the man on the spot, a fusty, dry, stiff, fine dining restaurant rose like a magnificent phoenix. The food was fabulous: technically unimpeachable and confidently classic; scarily expensive, but worth it. The front of house service, from Maitre D to sommelier, was second to none. Sympathetic redecoration and careful restoration had imbued the room with a unique atmosphere that quite took the breath away, like visiting a newly refurbished museum where you can truly appreciate the artefacts for the first time.

But the moment I walked in to the Pompadour on this occasion, I sensed that something had changed, and not for the better. It's still under the aegis of the Galvins, only with a new executive chef, but you couldn't miss the altered atmosphere. Two things bugged me instantly - lights too bright, music fit for a commercial hotel lobby - and unease then built to crescendo. The whole experience felt like being on a production line. Table staff dive around you like irritated bluebottles dodging fly spray. Did someone press an "express business lunch" switch?

No sooner had the front-of-house greeter delivered his "How was your day, Ladies?" spiel and some pedestrian bread had been deposited on the table, than our starters arrived freakishly hot on their heels. The misspelled risotto of Perigold [sic] truffle with Jerusalem artichokes and wood sorrel would provide perfect fodder for those who ridicule paltry portions served in ritzy establishments. Still, the truffles had a lusty aroma, and this was a fine risotto, if heavy on the salt. But it was barely warm, and its companion starter, described on the menu as "lasagne of Scrabster langoustine with shellfish emulsion", was tepid, rapidly cooling to cold by the last precious mouthful. Our waiter announced it as "salmon and scallop lasagne", and had difficulty taking the point that neither salmon nor scallops had figured in its selling pitch; perhaps this was a language problem. No way would I have ordered this dish if I had known that it contained farmed salmon: I boycott the stuff. And did it? Who knows? There were certainly langoustines, but the pasta had bathed too long in water, and the anise flavour was over-egged. This result was more like tepid invalid food than the alluring Galvin signature dish that I know and love.

Rushed to table, but nevertheless perplexingly cool, came two fishy main courses, the better of which was a firm, crisp-skinned fillet of wild sea bass to which an unmemorable froth, acetic artichoke heart and solid mussels brought little. Translucent, undercooked cod, on the other hand, tasted as if it had been poached in a 50/50 water to salt brine, and was partnered by brandade much saltier than this French salt cod and potato speciality should ever be. Two redeeming elements - buttery lemony breadcrumbs and punchy green purée (watercress?) - couldn't rescue it. We left a quarter of the cod, but the plate was whisked away without as much as a "Was everything alright?". Perhaps the Pompadour no longer has the time for such solicitousness; either that, or nobody really notices if food goes back uneaten.

At least the pastry department is delivering the Galvin sparkle. A hallmark Galvin soufflé of banana and chocolate was of the standard that we have come to expect, although the menu read "banana and hazelnut soufflé". Tough if you don't want/like chocolate, or were attracted by the promise of nuts, which made only a tiny garnish. Who's not spotting these discrepancies? A striking gelatine-set cheesecake captured the complex, 3-D flavour of blood oranges; razor-thin angle-cut slices of impeccably poached rhubarb, and caramel-bitter marmalade ice cream flanked it elegantly.

Puddings apart though, the Pompadour might as well have an invisible "under new management" sign suspended in the air. The Galvin name may still be over the door, but the reliable standard that usually accompanies it hasn't turned up for its shift.