DON'T RESTAURANTS DO silly things? Like charging £6.50 for a pavlova. And giving you menus that are the size of windbreakers and just as unwieldy. Why do they do it? If I had the answer to that I'd be a wealthy woman, or at least Scotland's answer to
Oliver Peyton. As it is I'm just a relatively satisfied diner who enjoyed a relatively satisfying dinner at the Dakota Grill, but who thinks that it could – nay, should – have been better.
Maybe it's the curse of the trophy cabinet. The restaurant, which sits on the ground floor of the enormous black box of a hotel just off the A90, picked up the award for Best Scottish Seafood Restaurant this year to add to its Best Scottish Restaurant and Best Scottish Hotel Restaurant last year. Call me susceptible, but that haul makes me expect very good things indeed because I've eaten in some rather fine seafood restaurants in this country. And, to be fair, the seafood that A and I ate was pretty delicious; it was the other bits and bobs – the watery potatoes, the underwhelming duck liver parfait, that overpriced pavlova – that took the edge off the experience as a whole.
I sound like I'm gearing up to give the Dakota a right drubbing, but I'm not, although I do have a few quibbles, a couple of bones to pick (and since my lemon sole came on the bone this is both literal and figurative).
Wafting our menus around like incomprehensible semaphore flags, we made our selections. To start, it was simple: fish and shellfish soup with rouille, Parmesan and croutons (£6.50) for A and the duck liver parfait with quince jam and Poilane toast (£6.95) for me. Then there was a section which looked to be fish courses and in a fit of excitement A decided that the fruits of the sea platter (lobster, crab, langoustines, oysters, clams and mussels) was an opportunity that could not be missed and I thought I should help him out with it. But no, these aren't fish courses, they're mains and, by the horrified look on the young waiter's face, the notion that A might attempt to put away both this and the Dornoch lamb (£17.95) filled him with dread. So what to do? Neither of us wanted a cold main course, no matter how good the shellfish, so we opted for three types of oysters served with shallot vinegar (£12.95) to share, followed by the lamb for A and the grilled lemon sole with buttered new potatoes (£16.95) for me.
Waiting for our food to arrive, while we discussed the fact that the menu really does need a smaller seafood platter which could be eaten as a fish course or starter, we were offered some bread. "Sourdough," the nice young man said. "I fed fresher to the birds this morning," said A, once he'd gone.
Then the starters appeared. A man of few words, A pronounced his fish soup "tasty" and polished it off. My duck liver parfait, served in a small Kilner jar (cute but still oversized for the parfait) set alongside a mini-tower of toast and a dab of quince jam, was pleasant but forgettable. It was smooth and creamy but it didn't taste strikingly of duck, which was a pity. A, having demolished all of his, generously finished mine and happened to agree.
And then they arrived. In a dish filled with ice and decorated with strips of kelp, sat six beautifully fresh and pleasingly plump oysters, glistening and befrilled. Two from Duchy of Cornwall, two from Carlingford, Northern Ireland, and two from our own Loch Fyne. And how distinct and delicious they tasted. Round and wide, the Duchy pair were tender and delicate, long and slender; the Carlingford two were meatier and more substantial; and the Loch Fyne duo had the tangiest, saltiest taste.
And since I'm on to geographic specificity it's worth saying that had I not driven us to the Dakota, from sitting in the dining room I wouldn't have had a clue as to where we were. In a building that looks to be almost all glass, it's interesting that in the dining room there are no windows. Nor does the decor offer any clue to the fact that you're in Scotland. Exposed bricks and air conditioning system, dark colours and subdued lighting – the vibe is New York loft. The waiters, in their long aprons and waistcoats, are working a similar look and although they're unfailingly friendly, they're a little too nervous for absolute comfort.
Oysters despatched, it was time for the mains. A's lamb – a rack of four chops set atop a potato cake which hid a salsa verde below – was pink and juicy. My lemon sole – seared skin drizzled with oil, dusted with fresh herbs and served with a muslin-wrapped half a lemon – occupied most of the oval plate. I was warned that it was served on the bone but I couldn't help yearning for days when the waiter might have deconstructed the fish in front of my eyes. As it was, I picked my way through and it was worth it. The fish was beautifully cooked – moist, meaty and succulent. The watery potatoes served on the side were saved by their generous dowsing of butter.
And finally, the pavlova with rhubarb jelly and custard. Top marks for retro flavour combination but a dessert that costs more than six quid has got to be something special. And this wasn't. Too neat to be indulgent as a pavlova should be, the ring of rhubarb was hard, the meringue not nearly chewy enough. There was no teeth-withering sugariness and that, I'm afraid, left a less than sweet taste in my mouth.
