Creelers still has me hook, line and sinker

I'd like a little musical accompaniment this week. A solo violin perhaps; or that particularly doleful Vivaldi cello concerto which sighs its way through so many arty films. For this was a poignant moment. The grown-up kind, only available to over-21s.

Creelers Seafood Restaurant

3 Hunter Square, Edinburgh (0131-220 4447)

The Bill

Lunch for two, £43.45, excluding drinks

"How many years is it since we last had lunch here?" my tall, if no longer exactly dark, companion asked. I guessed at three or four. He reckoned five or six. This is not the mathematics of youth. It is the cue for that cello, or a voice-over reading a Cavafy poem, "New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas. The city will follow you. You will roam the same streets. And you will age in the same neighbourhoods; in these same houses you will grow grey. Always you will arrive in this city ..."

For standing as we were in Edinburgh's Hunter Square, looking down Blair Street towards the Cowgate, Scotland's capital looked ancient and immutable as Rome. And we were feeling pretty old ourselves. You just don't mislay three years in primary school. But then, you don't get out for lunch much either. I must remember to notch up the lunch aspect on my "compensations for ageing" list. It is rather short, I admit. So far, it runs to three items. Or is it just two? I wish I could remember ...

Anyway, we strode through the doors of Creelers Seafood Restaurant at 3 Hunter Square with all the confidence and hauteur which vast experience permits. And, of course, I realised instantly that it is vast experience which is the true compensation of extended years. Nothing to do with metal fatigue: only an infinitely more discerning aesthetic repertoire.

Exercising the latter, it was a pleasure to find that the most serene seascape murals in Scotland still swam in Ancient Mariner calm on the walls of the restaurant. The terracotta tiled floor, wooden tables and impressive bar were all present and correct, and even Tim James, the proprietor, was starring for lunchtime service. This is a man who has already packed several lifetimes into his own career. From London-based furniture salesman, to trawler fisherman, smokehouse owner, and restaurateur. He and his wife Fran, an actress, returned to the Kintyre estate, where Tim was brought up, to give their own children the benefits of a Scottish rural upbringing. But fishing is a harsh and dangerous life - Tim's brother was lost at sea in 1992 - and being away for ten days at a time was no idyllic lifestyle; so the family moved to Arran to open their first seafood restaurant in the 1990s; and then to Edinburgh, where the season is year round.

The menu at Creelers reflects this journey, featuring Arran cheeses and home-smoked and cured salmon, as well as daily deliveries of west coast seafood. But on an exceptionally chilly April day, Torquil the Tall (keeper of ancient feasting memories) preferred something more carnivore. Duck confit with pickled red cabbage and sour cream (£6.95) to be precise, while I netted the mussels steamed in white wine and shallots (£7.25).

Torquil's confit looked rather strange on arrival. The duck flesh had been flaked, set over a layer of pickled red cabbage, and pressed into a ring which was then topped with a good half-inch of sour cream. As the confit method of slow cooking duck or goose in its own fat until it is meltingly tender was invented by shrewd Burgundian housewives as a means of preserving the meat - which will keep for several weeks when cooked and sealed - it is most often simply extracted from its tomb of cholesterol and fried on a high heat to crisp the outside skin. Pierre Levicky did hit on the idea of the world's most decadent shepherd (or duck herder) pie by topping the jus-moistened flesh with fluffy mashed potato; but this thick blanket of sour cream was not such a success. The duck flesh itself was rather hard and chewy, and the cream seemed like the culinary equivalent of heavy white face powder on the cheeks of a dowager duchess. Disguise rather than compliment.

I had no such complaints with my mussels, which, though small, were tender and tasty, and exuded a splendid winy vapour so fragrant I'd suggest it as a gourmet alternative to Vicks VapoRub for those who can remember a childhood blighted by big bowls of boiling water and a towel shroud.

Torquil wisely chose seafood for his next course: a fish stew (£8.75) which seemed to feature the Cecil B DeMille marine cast of thousands: salmon, white fish, crab, prawns and langoustine, all marauding in a fresh-tasting tide of garlic-laced tomato broth. I didn't manage to snatch a taste, but with the help of Creelers' extra-chunky brown bread, not a drop remained, so I could only conclude that it was more than satisfactory. I opted for the smoked haddock fillet (£9.50). This was served with a velvety cream sauce and lots of spring onion mash. The fillet was an undyed sweet-smoke, and very large. It was served folded in three, like a well-disciplined army blanket, but had become a little tough around the edges. Fortunately, as there was so much of it, this only meant discarding the chewy margins and enjoying the rest.

Torquil felt he needed a further course to savour those memories of dejeuners perdus to perfection; so we shared an excellent, sharp, light lemon curd cheesecake (£4.75) - the whipped and chilled rather than cooked variety, plus a generous selection of Scottish cheese and oatcakes (£6.25). This was really a meal in itself, especially as it seemed to lead so naturally to a couple of glasses of exceptional Chilean red. But then, staggering down memory lane can be quite exhausting, and as we older people realise, one really must eat well to enjoy the trip.