Sunshine and comfort food - can it get better?

Skippers Bistro

1a Dock Place, Edinburgh
(0131-554 1018)

The Bill
Dinner for two, £47.15, excluding drinks

WHEN did you last think about Vikings? (Persons who type "rape-and-pillage" into Google and scrutinise the results by moonlight need not apply). But, most of us - having moved on from the exciting part of primary school history - tend to forget about long, curved ships and blond warriors with big horns on their helmets. Tony Curtis would be sad to hear that, I'm sure. He looked so compelling in that leather strappy breastplate.

But since those oil-slicked muscle days of epic Hollywood fiction, the most memorable depiction of Scandinavian heroism I recall came via the 1980s cult foodie film Babette's Feast. That's when we witnessed what we Scots always knew must be the truth - Calvinistic rigour, winds friendly as a passing scythe, and a diet comprising little more than porridge and herring.

In the end, Babette, a refugee from the French revolution, awakens the small, clenched community to the transforming balm of sensual pleasures - specifically those of the table. After a bizarre lottery win, she imports all the delicious extravagances she had known in her former life as a court cook. Course by course, glass by glass, they melt into softer people. I recalled that transformation recently, while seated in a celebrated Copenhagen restaurant called Prèmisse, ingesting what I can truly say was the most extraordinary meal I have ever eaten.

And yes, "extraordinary" is an opaque description, to be used both in the manner of Noël Coward's backstage half truths: "A quite extraordinary performance, my dear boy!" and also in genuine enthusiasm. For Prèmisse had lavished more expertise, cutlery, crockery and waiting staff on their six-course menu, priced at £65 per person, than I have experienced anywhere. Unfortunately the Arnold Bennett clause was well to the fore.

You haven't heard of the Arnold Bennett clause? When the famous theatre critic, after whom the smoked haddock omelette was named, decided to cook his preferred version for his nine-year-old daughter, she ate hardly any of it. "Don't you like it?" enquired her anxious papa. "Oh yes, Daddy," she enthused. "I like it very much. It's just that it doesn't taste very nice."

So before our starter of Norwegian lobster with almonds and a schooner of warm, creamy cauliflower soup came an "amuse" of dainty Scandic bites including a ceramic egg filled with something dark, smooth, and very fishy. "What the hell is this?" enquired the American. "I think it must be fish liver pâté," I whispered. Having never been afflicted by cod liver oil as a kid, he had no idea that fish had livers. So the Greenland halibut, garnished with hibiscus flowers followed, and a glass of chilled cucumber soup topped with lime foam; then duck breast rare as a recent collision and sharpened with sour cherries and rhubarb; followed by a confit sausage of the feathered victim's leg, with satay sauce and spring onions. In between each acknowledged course, another little serving of the chef's theatrical angst was brought forth, as well as different styled crockery and cutlery. I can't recall the "pre-dessert" precisely - I think creamed rice was involved; but what I do remember is the three contrasting plates of the main pudding event. On one plate there was carrot sorbet and carrot ice-cream which, apart from their vivid orange colour would not have made you think immediately of Bugs Bunny, on another, a wonderful little high rise, hot soufflé which was fragrant, sweet and moreish. The main event was carrot cornets: pastry tubes, stuffed with a sweet purée and surrounded by diced white chocolate parfait. With 32 plates and 12 sets of cutlery was this too much ingenuity to lavish on dinner? I think so.

Hence, as soon as I stepped back onto my own thorny Nordic soil, I was in the mood for the consolingly familiar: Skippers Bistro at 1a Dock Place.

No need for icy Scandinavian minimalism here; the warm red walls, big sea charts, dark wood and brass paraphernalia signal the real McCoy (it is the oldest building in Leith, I'm told) and those who doubt need only look at the very simple menu. Zingy fresh fish and seafood treated with respect - a little lemon juice here, a slick of hollandaise there: a snap of spice or the autumnal sweetness of a home smoke. That's the culinary signature I missed among the curls and flourishes of our 12-section meal in Copenhagen.

So I allowed myself to order something "easy" - a duo of gravadlax and oak-smoked salmon (£5.95), both of which murmured a soft-toned Scots superiority in matters briny. Nothing fancy, just really good top-quality produce. Mr D said the same about his crevettes (£6.45): big pearly marauders, char-grilled into sweet submission and served only with a slick of garlic oil and a huge wedge of lemon. Delicious.

With a well-iced bottle of Chablis and some good bread, this was relaxing food instead of challenging food. So I'm happy to report that seared king scallops with black pudding and a roasted red pepper dressing (£21.50) continued the "kiss, kiss, there, there" effect. Mr D chose an elegantly restrained sea bream, served with asparagus spears and a citrus crab salad (£13.25), a summery, beguiling combination of clear fresh flavours. There were the usual over-generous dishes of carefully judged vegetables alongside, but we forgot them after the first appreciative forkful. I advised against pudding. I was afraid too those carrots had already set sail for Leith.