Boisdale of Canary Wharf (Bar, Restaurant)

Best for: rich food, rich people, rich wine, and rich music.

Great: Scottish restaurant for romantic dinners with a view.

Boisdale Scottish restaurant in Canary Wharf really puts the class into business class. Come to think of it, it really puts the business into business class as well. There’s business taking place all over the restaurant.

That library of 900 whiskies behind the bar, for example; that is THE business. Boisdale is to whisky lovers what World of Wool is to kittens. Some of those antique bottles were produced by now defunct 1930s distilleries!

DOING the business of setting a decadent, if not sultry, tone for the restaurant are the striking red rimmed plates and scarlet coloured walls.

And there’s no business like SHOW business, so Boisdale’s brazen affection for music is manifested by a wall-mounted trombone, a grand piano on stage, old photos of jazz singers, and a live music schedule curated by the sommelier of sound, Mr Jools Holland. It’s easy to understand why the restaurant was runner up for Best Live Music Venue at last year’s London Lifestyle Awards, second only to the Royal Albert Hall!

Perhaps the restaurant’s most glaringly obvious vein of business, though, emanates from the multitude of besuited diners who flex their company credit cards. Working for the many monolithic financial organisations nearby, these loud chortlers take care OF business by splashing the petty cash on colleagues and clients.

(A quick footnote for some of the ladies: girly twosomes can be seen husband-fishing at the bar, surveying the restaurant for eligible, and frankly quite good looking, bachelors. Male-to-female ratio: 3:1)

Myself and my beautiful guest, however, took care of a bit of business of our own on the night of our visit, and indulged in Boisdale’s most understated raison d'être: romance.

It’s so easy to fall in dirty, sexy, funky, sweaty, sassy, swanky love at Boisdale. We were celebrating our anniversary (of sorts; it’s only been 3 months, but thanks to this faultless restaurant experience, that might extend further), and I was wearing my best pants.

We asked to be seated in the quieter (unofficial) lovers’ section, where the lights were turned down low; Barry White low. Our table had candlelight and a red rose, and was the ideal ‘background music’ distance from the live boogie, woogie, stride and blues on stage.

We also had a romantic view across Cabot Square through the floor-to-ceiling window, which was perfected by water fountains and twinkling tree lights. There’s something wholly satisfying about peering across an idyllic scene, and in through office windows where workers diligently toil whilst you play footsie under the table.

We weren’t alone in our mood for love, though; oh no. The lady at the next table was so riddled with romance that she periodically rose from her seat to feed sweet peas to her Sweet Pea. Behind her, another woman ordered a whole man, medium rare, as her main course and was slowly making light work of him without the need for a knife and fork. Snogalicious!

The food of love that night was Scottish, and not all Scottish food is deep fried in evil. The best bits freely explore Scottish land and waters, until they end up on our plates. Then it’s down the romance hatch you go Dunkeld smoked salmon and Seruga caviar on rye (exquisite, confidently salty, but a little muted for £30).

I’ll honour the liberty of the Scottish lamb that became the miniature MacSween haggis we lovingly shared. It’s mealy texture absorbed a wee noggin of Johnnie Walkie Black Label and produced a hot flush of excitement across our amorous faces.

And things only got richer from there: dense taste and soft texture of Blair Atholl venison with Douglas fir, garlic snails, Scottish girolles, and mushroom puree (priced the same as my starter = value); a sizable ‘happy cow’ guest steak cooked medium to offer a bit of chew; something hard, something soft, something goat, something blue, served with a glass of 10-year tawny port; and a climax of hot chocolate fondant with Bourbon ice cream.

The apogee of our evening of luurve was the service, which allowed long enough between courses for romance to blossom, but never left us wanting. The wine list was confusingly long, so we put faith in the waiter, who didn’t disappoint: the light Remole Sangiovese di Toscana went well with the rich flavours, and the soft, strawberry Simonet-Febvre produced the warning, “I love you, but get your filthy hands off my Petit Chablis!”

Everybody and everything at Boisdale seemed rich and distinctly Scottish that night, and behind the taxidermy stag heads and tartan jazz smiles, we witnessed Boisdale putting the bom-chicka-wah-wah back into business....read more