Garden of culinary delights

0131 6629788

Lunch-Dinner £8-20

Food rating 9/10

THE Potting Shed: what a no-hoper name for a restaurant. It conjures up images of one of those deadbeat cafes in near moribund garden centres, the sort with sticky oilskin tablecloths and posters of Alan Titchmarsh on the wall, where you're served up toasties made from plastic bread and cheese, stolid microwaved baked potatoes with tin foil butter pats, and stock cube soup, inevitably hackneyed carrot and coriander. To be fair, there's a wordplay on the location, Potterrow in Edinburgh, but that too has negative associations because the immediate vicinity is so scarred by Edinburgh University's repeat architectural vandalism offences.

I wasn't liking the website either, particularly the twee Inside The Shed section, which introduces you to kindergarten characters - Billy the Fisherman, Farmer Campbell, Allotment Angus et al. To use a Scottish slang word, it's a steaming compost heap of nebulous "spraff". Only those still hugging their teddy at night will believe that it gives them a glimmer of adult insight into the Potting Shed's sourcing policy.

As you can see, it wasn't shaping up to be my sort of place, but lo and behold, it turned out to be precisely that. The food spoke louder than the verbiage: not just nice ingredients, but also an intelligent choice of conspicuously seasonal dishes, attentively cooked, with little touches that showed more care and attention than its very modest price tags might suggest. I refuse to use the term "tapas", nicked from Spanish, but the savoury menu runs to over 20 small plates that range from £2 to £6. For the price, I thought they'd be tiny, but two would be enough for my appetite. Is any of this sounding familiar to Glaswegians? A bit like the much-welcomed Ox And Finch, perhaps? The Potting Shed's chef comes from that kitchen, so well spotted Sherlock.

Now, this is the sort of food I like, every ingredient earning its place, lots of true, unaffected flavours, no wadding, light on the stomach, yet satisfying, food that leaves you feeling alive, not comatose. Oh, and several ingenious vegetable options that pick up on the allotment promise. Half a heart of a small white cabbage became compulsive eating under its oily garnish of smoked, dry-cured bacon lardons and toasted pine nuts. Sprouting purple broccoli seemed more of a treat than any steak: sweet at the core, singed by the aroma of a hot skillet or wok, doused in opulent oil, sharpened with lemon and lent texture contrast by creamy walnuts. Fanned slices of cauliflower, cut on a mandolin I'd say, came golden and crisp, along with addictive cubed fritters of pearl barley fused with nippy Isle of Mull cheddar (a bit like Italian arancini), and with a gloriously smooth cauliflower and horseradish purée.

Of the more protein-centric options, half a healthy-sized plaice, cut through the bone, fried in golden nut butter, and electrified by parsley and anchovies combined in a lively salsa verde union, was a scene-stealer, but it was a close-run thing. A dainty flatbread, which tasted like an expertly homemade potato scone, supported moist strands of shredded lamb with such depth and complexity of inherent flavour that it could have been hogget, an older animal that has grazed on taste-promoting pasture for longer than most. A dais of potato rosti, judiciously fried to create a fabulously crusty dark pediment and top, supported a tremulous poached duck egg, strewn with roasted, crushed hazelnuts. Cod cheeks encased in a clean-tasting, straw-gold batter perched upon an original, mustard-rich, fennel remoulade.

There are three desserts: a mousse-centred chocolate and ale brownie which comes with sharp frozen buttermilk; a pretty pannacotta flavoured and coloured with powdered Japanese Matcha tea, served with a vividly fresh clementine sorbet; an otherwise pleasant custard "tart" served in a crème Catalan dish with blushing rhubarb, let down by its cap of actively unpleasant pastry.

Despite my forebodings, the decor (rendered brick, salvaged wood, dangling garden tools and clay-pot lampshades) works well enough. You can hear yourself talk in the dining area, which is, I suppose, rather like a conspiratorial potting shed.