THE BIB Gourmand is a badge of honour in the culinary world, handed out by the Michelin Guide to restaurants on the way up, the Bib Pho on the other hand is a badge of shame; handed out to fat food critics on the way down. Or at least on the way to splattering themselves whilst drooling their Beef Brisket and noodles in downtown chain restaurants.
At this point curiosity draws me like a doughball to one of the many walk-in stand-up photo-booths that line the walls. Linked directly to the other side of the world, apparently. Scary.
When I wandered in off St Vincent Place and asked for a table for one, I didn’t get the usual teeth-sucking, face-pulling, we’ll-see-if-we-can-fit-you-in-leper-boy. But a bright, cheery, “no problem”. Then I was led past booths, beyond stylish black lacquered screens, not to a micro table outside a toilet door as often happens, but into a lush atmospheric two-seater under a display case containing fabulous Game Of Thronesish golden masks.
In the beginning, of this meal anyway, there was the Bandari, hot Iranian sausage, wrapped tightly in good bread, slathered in onion, tomato paste and chilli, which we eat by way of a light warm up before the Zereshk Polo Ba Morgh arrives. And also before spoonfuls are extracted from a bowl of sour yoghurt and mixed into that Noodle Stew.
What is it about Edinburgh posh restaurants and fried chicken just now? They’re all at it. Like rarebits.
DunDun Xiang is popular, judging by it being full on this Tuesday night, and the young team obviously like it and there's tables of ladies on maybe a work night out, too.
Indian Street Food then: Vada Pav, Bedami Puri, Chole Kulche, Aloo Paratha and Aloo Kachori. Hang on. These prices? Wow. From £3.25 to the not-lofty heights of £6.50 a dish. Refreshing considering Indian street food elsewhere has recently become just another excuse for full fat charging.
WELCOME back, the bubbly waitress says to my old mate Joe who responds with a look of surprised delight while I merely hoist a curious eyebrow.
Perthshire Pork Loin was the main. The faintest of pink blushes just visible in the slices, black pudding encased in something crisp and moreish on the side, the whole dish draped with wilted greens, a dollop of a good mustard sauce, a puddle of a crisp apple goo, and a jus that would on its own be too salty but with the tender pork? Seasons perfectly.
Let’s rewind for a moment. I stumbled in here amidst the Ramadan rush at about 6.30pm. That moment when the sun goes down and people can break the fast they have been on during daylight hours.
