If golf is a good walk spoiled, then East Lothian is beautiful countryside disfigured. It's blotted with golf courses, all rolling on, interminably, like films starring Orlando Bloom. Primped and preened into an unnatural natural state, the area has undergone the topographical equivalent of cosmetic surgery. Just as people nip and tuck when they have full pockets and empty afternoons, so do places. Golf has made East Lothian rich, nowhere more so than Gullane. It crawls with golfers and is awash with dosh.
The town also attracts a certain class and vintage of Edinburgher - which is to say, the old and posh. Among these venerable citizens, La Potinière had quite the reputation, run for years by a husband-and-wife team who had no formal training but found their establishment emblazoned with a Michelin star. A new team, Mary Runciman and Keith Marley, have taken charge and it appears that the more things change, the more they stay the same. As chintzy as an old auntie's front room (complete with floral curtains and a brooding sideboard) and seating 30 diners at most, it's frightfully genteel and home to some exquisite cooking. And, of course, a bonkers clientele.
You would think that this meant my mum and I were in perfect company as we tucked into our Isle of Mull cheddar tarts. But no. Light, frothy and not at all quiche-y, as we had anticipated, they were accompanied by the elderly lady at the next table exclaiming, "Humphrey!" at her dining companion (presumably because that was his name and perhaps because he was playing footsie with her). She then laid into Tony Blair ("That's Fettes for you!") and inquired as to Humphrey's choice of clothing at an event the nature of which we couldn't quite ascertain. "Did you wear a cravat?" she asked. We guessed he hadn't been at a football match.
As we embarked on our mains - me, a melt-in-the-mouth fillet of Scotch beef with wild mushroom risotto, and pink peppercorn and truffle sauce; Mum, a meaty seared monkfish, creamy mash with fennel, spring onions, sugar snap and asparagus - the man behind Mum began regaling his companion, and the rest of the restaurant, with the woes of the well-to-do transatlantic traveller. He couldn't see why, paying £3,500 for a business-class ticket, he should queue with the "hoi polloi" to get on the plane. "Don't get me wrong, I'm a hoi polloi kind of person, but if I'm paying that much, I want a chaffeur-driven car to the plane." I thought Mum might turn round and wallop the back of his head with her monkfish. "That would have been a terrible waste," she said later. "I was tempted to concuss him with my side plate, though."
After a palate-cleansing poached pineapple (which, like the cullen skink - that's creamy fish soup, Sassenachs - between starters and mains, was a total treat), dessert arrived, triumphant. Mum's passion fruit mousse with mango coulis, coconut and banana tart and a coconut sorbet tasted like "a fortnight in St Lucia", while my cheese plate was near to perfect. Appreciative murmurs rose from the surrounding tables, a noise infinitely preferable to the earlier conversations ("It was a wonderful documentary, but there wasn't a word about it in the Mail!").
It's just as well La Potinière's food is so fine. Firmly old-fashioned, with sedate service and no music to break the often-oppressive silence or muffle other diners' conversations, it is not the sort of place to visit for the ambience. Unless, of course, you are a golfer or affluent Edinburgher. Such is its intimacy, you unavoidably feel, after an apparently obligatory three-hour meal, as if you've been at a dinner party with people who'd happily run you down in their Land Rovers. A good meal, by no means spoiled, but certainly slightly tainted.
