John Gibson: Now this old Seadog is making waves

Published on Friday 12 March 2010 09:29

BIT of badinage. Cut and thrust. David Ramsden and I, we've had this sort of relationship, this understanding, ever since he was restaurateuring in a Leith backwater.

It goes on. He wanted me to sample Seadogs, latest addition to his Hangover Street Dogs coterie, a block or so away in Rose Street. "None of your two-paragraph stuff," he intoned, towering over our table. "I'll be looking for a spread."

Well David, my son, this is as good as it gets. Overgenerous at that. Space is tight, we are in recession, haven't you heard?

That said, Seadogs has to be the airiest, brightest room on a street crying out for someone with his vision, his joie de vivre, his wholesome come-in-and-grab-a-pew grub. Here it has to be fishy. What else?

Not intensely so, though. Cullen skink, smoked mackerel, black pudding topped with a poached egg wasn't insurmountable for this dyed-in-the-calories meat scoffer. Only a month with this latest venture but we have to wonder where he'll go from here.

The cards couldn't have been closer to his chest. "Where the wind blows. But pay attention to the Mistral." A weather-beaten type at the next table, who could have passed for Cap'n Birdseye's dad, seemed intrigued by the conversation.

"Seadogs has had a few reviews but I'm too naive and stupid to listen to what they say. I'm persevering. Every dog will have his day. If this is my day, I'm enjoying every minute of it.

"When I'm asked 'where from here?' I tease and tantalise. Under pressure I say we have distant plans to move back to Spain, to invest there. But I'm not going to rush it.

"I'm blessed with my clientele . . . labourers, plumbers, lords and ladies. Even nosey journalists predisposed to bacon and eggs."

There you go, big man. Ten paragraphs. With Cap'n Birdseye the rapt eavesdropper. Your lot. And be happy with it.

Afterwords . .

.. Too much information. Sandi Talksbig on her 50th birthday eschewed wearing small pants. Skimps. Thongs. Permanently. Her knickers now come up to her chest. (Bet a lot of you girls are wearing them but don't tell anybody).

Oh please, Sandi, send me a photo! But not one with your jackboots.