WALMER
CASTLE
58 Ledbury Road,
London W11;
020 4580 1196,
walmercastlenottinghill.
co.uk
I
n a sealed vault deep
beneath Cawdor Castle is an
ancient parchment on which
is inscribed: “It is decreed
that every contemporary
restaurant that dares to call
itself Scottish must, on its
menu, bear the legend,
‘Haggis bonbons’. ”
I’m joshing of course. But
this new outfit in a Notting
Hill pub is trumpeted as being a
“Scottish restaurant and whisky
bar in collaboration with the
Craigellachie Hotel”. The hotel
is owned — as is the Walmer
Castle itself — by Piers Adam,
also responsible for Mahiki in
Mayfair, the posho copping-off
joint beloved of frisky aristos;
and boss, too, of a whisky brand.
So “collaboration” seems an
odd way of putting it. Given
that trumpeting, you’d think
they might like to try a little
harder than this tired old
Glasgow bar-snack cliché. The
bonbons in question are rather
slimy deep-fried dollops with
a brown sauce we spend some
time trying to parse, coming
up eventually with “gravy”.
(It’s whisky, we’re told.)
The haggisy glumness sets
the tone for a meal that doesn’t
cheer up much with the arrival
of successive dishes. Beetroot
salad, ungainly chunks on an
oily carrot hummus. Ho-hum.
A decent steak, thick tranche of
chewy sirloin, rare as requested;
but served without sides, so
we have to add catering-pack
fries and a challenging slab of
broccoli — a whole quarter,
not quite grilled enough, nor
featuring enough of its garlic-
chilli-oregano dressing. Broccoli
does not respond well to this
presentation, all fibrous stalk;
my mother would have called
it “an ignorant lump”.Nothing is great. That steak is
OK and I’m not actively horrified
by a duo of sliders, one, “crispy
lobster, crab and shrimp”,
arriving as a bouncy surimi-like
fishcake; the other a grey dod of
mince — sorry, “Craigellachie
beef ”; both with the sort of
garnish — frill of lettuce and
tomato, dip that tastes like mayo
plus sriracha plus Heinz Tomato
Soup — that seems to define the
place’s manifesto. Which, I’m
guessing, is “That’ll do, right?”
See also chicken paillard, as
basic as a squad outing in pink
velour, toting Costa coffees en
route to a Slug & Lettuce. I can’t
remember the last time I saw
this on a menu and am boggling
to find it here. Also, what’s
“Scottish” about a grilledchicken breast with a haystack
of rocket on the side? Frankly,
the idea that there’s anything
much that’s genuinely Scottish
about this place is comical.
Unless you resort to gags about
deep-frying, which, of course,
I wouldn’t dream of doing.
But the menu isn’t so retiring:
fabulously Caledonian “crispy
monkfish tacos”, say. I have to
take their word for it that these
are, in fact, monkfish, even if,
biting into the white fish in its
crumbed overcoat, its smattering
of perfunctory salsa, wilted
microherbs and skidmarks of
guac, I’m not convinced. It has
the air of something assembled
less from “local [Scottish]
suppliers” and “world-class raw
ingredients” and more via theTA B L E TA L K●Marina O'Loughlin
If this is proper Scottish cooking it
leaves a nasty taste in the mouth
chest freezers of Iceland. Sure,
we could have ordered “Kellas
Estate venison carpaccio” or
“Highland smoked salmon”,
but these aren’t exactly putting
the kitchen through its paces.
Worst of all is a “hot artichoke
dip” that tastes of nothing at all
— perhaps light halitosis — and
has the texture of loft
insulation. This is so supremely
perfunctory it might as well
have “can’t be arsed” squirted
over it in supermarket own-
range ketchup. Worse still is its
accompaniment, supposedly
“Scottish rosemary tattie
scones”. Word of advice: do not
promise a Glaswegian woman
potato scones and then fail to
provide them, delivering instead
an embarrassed shrug ofThe refurbed interior is best
described as “ageing rock chick
meets Monarch of the Glen”
44 • The Sunday Times Magazine