Trattoria Rustica, Princes Street

26 January 2007

The table wasn’t ready so they jammed us in the crypt for best part of an hour. Thirty minutes later (at best) they took our order. Half an hour later we got our first glimpse of the starters.

That was October 2006, the last time we ate at Trattoria Rustica. While collectively certain the meal was exquisite, our recall likely lacks objectivity. All I know for sure is that the youngest member of our party had been polished off by the time we saw the antipasto and it looked like I would be eaten next.

Perhaps unsurprisingly then, Trattoria Rustica wasn’t our first choice of venue tonight. What we actually wanted was steak – to be precise, the meatier than thou Kobe steak they peddle at Rare. This – our long scheduled Christmas treat – had been twice scotched by ongoing sickness, and we were mainlining Bisto in order to reach that beefy high.

Things weren’t looking up: Rare was fully booked, and so rather than getting third-time-lucky we actually got three strikes and out. As for the hot beef injection contingency plan, the less said the better. Thus, with magnanimity and desperation in equal measure, we returned to Trattoria Rustica.

This time, we knew to book an early table. Sure enough, the restaurant was brimming by seven; it was no place for last-minute chancers or chubby waiting staff.

A string of waitresses offered us drinks, darting hither and thither with much more pronto to their pace than we recognised from last time (or, for that matter, Italy in general).

Our starters arrived within minutes, and as per the prime directive of all British trattorias, the Robocondimentor threatened everything but the wine with pepper and parmesan.

Having shooed away the pepper donna, Mrs Wifey got stuck into the delicious spread of baby spinach, raisins, almonds and prosciutto doused in a balsamic dressing. Meanwhile, I chose the Parma ham, mozzarella and tomato on crostini. Anyone who can make a better cheese and bacon sandwich, please start that orderly queue right now.

Matters bovine as yet unaddressed, we both refuelled with beef medallions, cooked with cognac, mustard and barello wine. It may not have been the flesh of pampered spa-retreat cows, but was still soft, pink and plentiful. A bit like Dawn French’s buttocks.

So is everything forgiven? Oh yes. Although visions of a mooning Vicar of Dibley I can do without.

Keywords: do you want cheese with that?
Eat here: in pairs and early