Restaurant review: Bia Bistrot, Edinburgh

Published on Friday 27 August 2010 19:42

It's lucky that I'd looked at the menu on this new eatery's website before I cycled there.

Because it was the thought of their bistro goodies (potted crab, homemade pat...) that kept my stumpy legs pumping the pedals, up the horribly endless 32 per cent incline that is the upper section of the Meadows.

My sister, Louisa, was even more excited about the grub. How else can you explain the fact that she powered, Belleville Rendezvous-style, past the putting green, leaving her creakier sibling for dust?

She may look ungainly on land, but on two wheels at feeding time, she moves like greased lightning.

"Chop chop," she bleated into the wind, as we whizzed past Peckhams, Coco Chocolate and Project Coffee, before rounding the corner to our destination, Bia Bistrot (Bia is Irish Gaelic for food and Bistrot, the Gallic spelling of bistro), where we met our third diner: my boyfriend, Rolf.

This new restaurant is in the former premises of The Olive Branch, which, before that, was the Edinburgh institution, Bistrot des Arts. It's now owned by couple Roisin and Matthias Llorente, who've cooked their way around the kitchens of Dublin, Singapore and New York.

The interior of this place is bistro-by-numbers style, with sparkly glassware, reclaimed wood tables and quirky pencil drawings on the walls, of prize marrows, blue fromage and the likes. From the specials blackboard, which is propped up on one of the pews, Louisa went for carrageen moss and goats cheese salad (5), while Rolf and I opted for chicken liver pat (4) and roast beef marrow (4) respectively, from the a-la-carte menu.

It was my other half who'd chosen the maillot jaune-winning dish. This consisted of a slice of buttery terrine, which was set off by a tart cranberry sauce and a couple of slices of crunchy sourdough. A simple classic.

My sister's choice, however, was slightly underwhelming. If they'd described this dish as a pannacotta, she probably would have bypassed it (I suppose we could have guessed, as carrageen is a natural gelatine).

Her plate featured a silky blancmange, which tasted salty, but not identifiably like goats cheese.

It came with cubed beetroot, a nest of rocket leaves and a slosh of balsamic vinegar.

I felt like a pampered pooch with my option, which consisted of three hunks of bone, with a dinky marrow spoon, plus a pot of sea salt and another of sweet onion confit. Unfortunately, this cow must have been a rickety old codger, as its shins contained two minuscule dollops of meat and only slightly more gelatinous goo. These sparse pickings might have been better absorbed by a wad of fluffy bread, rather than the toast that was provided.

Luckily, my main course of coley fillet (12) perked me up. The meaty piece of ozone-fresh fish was perched on top of a mound of sauted tatties, and I loved that the chefs had been generous with the glossy green samphire, which was piled high and topped with crispy flaked almonds. My only bugbear, then, was that there were only a few spots of a garlicky dressing, so the dish was a little dry.

In contrast, junior's dish of lamb rump (15) was hot and juicy perfection, with its scoop of smoky aubergine pure and a thick square of potato gratin. She guzzled this in happy silence.

Rolf was equally schtum when scoffing his main: a crunchy-skinned chicken breast, pea and broad bean mixture (13), which was bathing in a pale yellow vegetable broth. It tasted summery, with pieces of boiled potato providing extra carbs.

As my sister and I had cycled to this restaurant, while Rolf had relied on LRT, we thought we'd have pudding and he could watch. We shared a generous slice of warm gooey chocolate cake (4), which was sticky and tasty (but slightly lacking in the richness of cocoa department). Our lemon posset (4) was a dinky portion, zesty enough, with two button-sized pieces of shortbread and a pot of quartered strawberries. I thought this course was perfectly adequate, but Louisa couldn't stop raving about it.

"I'd go back to that bistro, just for the dessert," she shouted.

Or at least I think that's what she said, as she sped through the Meadows, sugar-powered, downhill all the way.

This article was first published in The Scotsman on Saturday, August 28