Restaurant review, The Pompadour by Galvin, Edinburgh

Not many famous London-based chefs have put their names over restaurant doors in Scotland. Apart from an ill-fated Glasgow venture involving Gordon Ramsay, I can't think of a single one. Ambitious empire builders are far more likely to be found opening in the Emirates than in Edinburgh. So the arrival of the Galvin brothers, Chris and Jeff, in a grand old hotel in the Scottish capital, is an interesting development.

The Galvins, both chefs of some repute, have built a terrific little group of restaurants since they joined forces seven years ago to launch their original Bistrot de Luxe in Marylebone, offering a highly-polished version of cuisine bourgeoise, without all the fine-dining fuss and bother. Despite upmarket locations in Harrods and the Park Lane Hilton, and a brace of Michelin stars, their mini-empire still feels like a family business.

All of the Galvins' existing restaurants are located within Zone 1 of the London Tube map. Their new collaboration with the Hilton group, in the swankily refurbished Caledonian Hotel, involves an 800-mile round trip, should one of the brothers decide to carry out a spot check. In interviews to publicise the launch, they made much of the fact that they'd be spending lots of time in Edinburgh, and presumably that's the case – they've been brought in as much for their expertise in making restaurants work as for the pulling-power of the Galvin name.

The more accessible of their two new restaurants in the Caledonian is the ground-floor Brasserie De Luxe, a handsome set of interconnecting rooms built round a circular seafood counter, and pre-loaded with school-of-Vettriano nostalgia. Upstairs is the big-ticket Pompadour, once Edinburgh's grandest and most expensive restaurant, now polished and primped back to full Belle Epoque splendour.

It's a pale, exquisite meringue of a room, the kind of place an Anita Brookner heroine might visit for afternoon tea, to stare mistily across at the Castle over cucumber sandwiches (although only one of the vast, semi-circular windows offers that premium view; the others look out towards a neon McDonald's sign twinkling bathetically over the tramworks on Princes Street). With its wedding cake cornicing, pale chairs and heavy naped tables, it's all very muted, as if everything has been marinated in eau de nil – although of course you don't go to somewhere called Pompadour expecting Formica and a dirty burger.

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