Gavin'S ThomasLoves ThomasThomas RoomThomas The TrainTrain BedroomTrain RoomBrayden'S BedroomChildren'S BedroomsThomas Tank Engine BedroomForwardThomas the Train pegboard and up to 5 letters by lauriereynolds1, $45.00Any nation that could vote Dad’s Army among the top five situation comedies of all time is suffering from a colossal surfeit of nostalgia. We’re famous for it, after all. An evening spent flicking between the five terrestrial TV channels, not to mention their 60 satellite counterparts, must surely convince a Martian that many of us are still on fire-watch duty, scanning the skies for bombers. In fact, the past is so dramatically present we might all be completing the punishment clause of Santayana’s edict: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” And mostly on BBC2. And I might have said as much, as we motored along the coast road, past the stone-strewn margins of the Firth of Forth, the washed-out dune grasses and the occasional, triumphant stretch of sand.

But such musings would have necessitated another fiver in the nostalgia penalty box. And I needed all my available loot for the bumper nostalgia fest to come. We were heading for La Potiniere in Gullane’s Main Street – a tiny restaurant with a massive memory bank. Ask any Edinburgh citizen of a certain age (and income bracket) about La Potiniere and the anecdotes will flow faster than wine. Not all that surprising if an Edinburgh hand is holding the bottle, I’ll admit, but it doesn’t diminish the fondness with which this chintzy little place, with its echoes of a hi-de-hi beach chalet, has been held by the capital’s citizens for over 25 years. Until March 2002, that is, when David and Hilary Brown put up the For Sale sign to bring a culinary era to an end. In the 18 months during which the restaurant was closed, I noticed that the recalled talents of the Browns grew faster than a fisherman’s escaped trout. The single Michelin star which they had won – a remarkable achievement for a husband-and-wife team with no formal training – was scarcely sufficient reward for all the vanished fabulousness.

Who would dare to wear the thorny crown of the successor? I felt a pang of sympathy when the new owners, Mary Runciman and Keith Marley, took over. Could impressive credentials from some of the most celebrated kitchens in Europe compete with the elusive treachery of nostalgia? Well, Mary and Keith have had over a year to grapple with their slippery legacy and create their own style. This was never likely to show itself too vividly in the decor, as the intimate, 30-cover space with its cottagey windows and low ceiling scarcely lends itself to revolutionary chic. Hence, at a first glance, things seem much as they were before: floral curtains, oak sideboard, crisp damask. The biggest – and, dare I say it – most welcome change is that the menu now offers some choice. Hilary’s idiosyncracy was a dinner-party ambience where all the guests were asked to arrive together and a five-course set menu presented, as though by a lavish and hugely skilled hostess. At lunchtime there is now a choice of three starters, two mains and two puddings or cheese at 15.50 for two courses, 18 for three.

Dinner offers four courses for 35.waverly augustine curtains I began with a terrine of chicken, ham, foie gras and leek, while my companion in nostalgia ordered parmesan tart which had an almost narcotic effect on her. butterfly blessings shower curtain at walmart“This is good,” she enthused. joella curtainsThen: “This is better than good. black beaded curtain dress stardollIt’s really excellent – the pastry is to die for.” frusciante curtains lpNever had she encountered a pie base so admirably thin and crumbly – and this woman knows her pies.purple blackout curtains argos

My terrine was no less of a success, not too chilled, with a mellow, melting stratification of flavour rather than a mosaic of ingredients, the foie gras lending a voluptuous smoothness and depth. hookless shower curtain replacement linerI had intended only to taste it, but ended up plate-polishing with some home-made bread. As a result, the roast guinea fowl supreme I chose as a main course looked rather daunting. It came surrounded by a selection of intensely flavoured roast vegetables and the sweet enticement of layered parsnips dauphinoise. A wild mush-room jus added another strand of flavour to the moist golden-roasted meat. A flawless assembly, and I could only eat half. Which was not at all the case at the other side of the table. There, steamed halibut in a champagne sauce was devoured with almost indecent delight. The same thing occurred with a crunchy little parcel of apple and banana billed as a “money bag” and certainly worth a few, to judge by the spoon-speed it inspired.

“The best meal I’ve had in a long time,” was my guest’s verdict. My own is that La Potiniere is as good as it ever was. This article was first published in Scotsman Magazine on 8 July 2004If 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. 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.