Domenico’s, Leith, Edinburgh

Have you encountered this yet? I suppose you have to have reached a certain age first. By this, I mean looking back on something which was once a keystone of your life, but now seem to be a lifetime ago. Take liquor licensing. I used to do a lot of it. I'm told I was quite good at it: I had a lot of laughs: I made good friends. But does it feature in my life at all these days? Hardly at all apart from the fact that I still rant about the misuse of licence and license. That, however, I put down to pedantry.

It was in that long lost world that I knew LW. Like me she has moved on. In her case onwards and upwards, having emigrated from the West to become a citizen of the capital. Not only does she follow the blog, she made a ton of suggestions for places to eat in Leith. So we agreed on lunch, and she suggested Domenico's. A decade on, there was much catching up to do.

This is probably the first time I've reported on a restaurant which seems unsure of its own name. The windows are etched Cafe Domenico: the blackboard on the side is headed Domenicos: and the home page on their website reads Welcome to Cafe Domenico's. None of that matters, of course, if the food's good. It has apparently been here for about quarter of a century, but you could be forgiven for missing it. There is a narrow, scruffy frontage in need of a good clean. If you think it looks like a sandwich bar, that's because the front part is.

Arriving early, I eased my way past the eager anticipation of the sarnie brigade, into the narrow intimate restaurant space. It felt just great. Independent Italian eateries as they were before they all started using the same interior designer, and focussing more on style than substance. Smiley Maya showed me to a tiny table and had a glass of red in front of me in a trice. This is going to be terrific, I thought.

It makes you schizophrenic, this food writing malarkey. Getting your brain to put to one side the fact that you've spent a delightful few hours with a long lost friend and to focus on the true awfulness of your main course is tricky. Now I'd read good things about this place. LW, who knows her grub, rates it highly. So what the hell happened?

The menu looked good and very reasonably priced. Not the usual, nonsensical ten page Italian effort. A dozen or so starters, half a dozen pasta dishes and six mains. But to stop regulars getting bored, there are about three or four blackboards of specials, including one for vegans. Ha ha! My main course was chosen in an instant (but not from that one).

Selections made. Beetroot salad for LW, followed by tagliatelle with salmon and avocado. I haven't had great experiences with arancini, but when your rice balls are livened up with 'nduja and Parmesan it's hard to see how they can go wrong. And for the main course? Well the special of rack of lamb with dauphinoise potatoes had had me salivating since I first spied it.

Ah, sorry, said Maya, that board is for the evening specials. Because she was so lovely I bit my tongue instead of saying, why the **** do you have it on display at one o'clock? Never mind. The menu says that chicken saltimbocca comes with dauphinoise. I'll settle for the silver medal. Hold that thought.

Although a debutante to the world of Tom Eats! LW is a natural, in that she gets the fact that sharing is essential. Her beetroot salad with prosciutto and other stuff was pretty decent. As she had warned me, portions are large. Her pasta was quite tasty too once you'd added a good squeeze of lemon.

Oh, you want to know about my meal? No, really, you don't. The arancini had a good kick of chilli from the sausage, though I couldn't find the Parmesan. One dimensional and dry, desperately needing the lubrication and contrast of a dressing. Even a simple slavver of mayo would have improved things. Two halves of a tiny cherry tomato will NOT do nicely, thank you. But read on, if you dare. It gets worse.

The advertised dauphinoise turned out (with no prior notice) to be tepid, Jenga-like chunks of fried potato. As it happens, the only edible things on the plate. The chicken was so dried out it could have been used to mop up any spillages, and any diner was in danger of breaking a tooth on the prosciutto in which it was wrapped. The promised Taleggio stuffing had evaporated long since, and there was barely a smear of something creamy to moisten this mess. But it gets worse again.

The accompanying vegetables were green beans, a reasonable helping. But they were burnt. No I don't mean overcooked: I don't mean slightly singed: I mean that every single one of them was black on one side. Any chef can have an off day. Allowing chicken to overcook can happen. But putting something like that on a plate and allowing it to leave your kitchen exhibits a complete and utter contempt for the customer. This chef should be keelhauled under a vessel in the Water of Leith, then summarily dismissed, then forbidden from darkening the door of a professional kitchen. Ever.

Quite the worst plate of food I've had in a very long time. But, ironically, one of the most fun lunches. Being a food reviewer? It's a funny old game.