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The Printing Press
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The Printing Press
21-25 George Street,

Hot off The Press ..... 
I've been seriously impressed with the Burr & Co coffee shop, part of the newly refurbed George Hotel on George Street, so I was more than happy to accept an invitation to dine in the Printing Press Bar & Kitchen, the restaurant formally known as The Tempus. 

The dining room is Georgian grandiose with fine plasterwork and Art Deco touches; tables are well spaced and you can watch the talented guys and gals tending to their craft behind a fine wooden bar as the shake, rattle and roll your cocktail.

Once seated with a rather strong Burns' cocktail (£8.75), it was a tough decision from all corners as to what to have. Local ingredients feature heavily and I changed my mind more than once - steak tartare (£7.50), maybe if I didn't want a Josper cooked steak for my main. Hand-dived scallops on inky black barley (£13), possibly. The poor waitress scratched out my decisions as I finally swam towards the Eyemouth langoustine thermidor tart (£9). Delicately short pastry acted like the shell in Botticelli's Venus, protecting the delicious langoustines in a heavenly mild mannered mustard and cheese sauce - a corker of a tart!

Eschewing the tartare earlier, I was almost swayed by the stone bass (£21) and my decision for the  guest steak turned out to be the Brazilian Picanha (£21), or as we'd know it, rump. Nicely bloody and full of flavours it was never going to be as tender as other cuts; served with plenty of a damn fine béarnaise  and truffle chips, I was a happy bunny.
Dessert was an infuriating, swithering delight. 

I fancied the marmalade pud with Drambuie custard (£5.50), but I was stuffed, as were my fellow diners. Some thought that the cranberry and heather honey burnt cream might be a bit heavy, while others thought the chocolate and salted caramel pot (£5.50) would be a less filling option; after all it normally comes in a demi-tasse cup, doesn't it? Oh my giddy gut! It came in a teacup, full to the brim of chocolatey unctuousness. I made a brave effort to eat it, but I was thwarted. It was heartbreaking to leave such a lush, divinely sinful thing of beauty, but defeat is defeat. I was not alone, so guilt was short lived.

 To round up dinner, I spotted an espresso martini making its way to another table, so rather than have coffee and a digestive, temptation got the better of me, nowt new there. The alcohol infused caffeine concoction, like everything else that night, was a rousing triumph. Chef Colin Fleming (who's worked with Martin Wishart and Nick Nairn) and his team did us proud. (L. Harris) 

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