With handwritten menus and art deco lighting – it seems Edinburgh’s gone retro. Going against the grain of “out with the old, in with the new”, big-shot Stuart McCluskey of the Bon Vivant group (and Paz Taqueria, for the eagle-eyed among you), has called on his dream team, with hopes to put the chic back in the mix. This is Little Capo – the bar-restaurant hybrid created with the spontaneous in mind. Arresting in its jazz-age flair, it’s hard to miss this new kid on the block, with bubble writing galore and a burnished orange façade that serves “Call Me by Your Name” elegance……peach not included. But step inside and the “italian-ish” finesse persists, as the dazzling drinks counter and small tables keep things intimate and bar-side highchairs ache for a solo date, you know, for when the Edinburgh dating scene is getting you down. So, lights low, jazz purring and drinks poured, it was time to get seated. With Little Capo meaning “little boss”, this jaunt had don-sized boots to fill.
Skimming over the carefully handwritten menu, I had to tear my thoughts away from when this scribe got his pen license and focus properly on the cocktails, with points promptly awarded as I spied the humble Americano – the cocktail of true Italians fatigued by today’s Aperol mania. Refusing to be seduced by the wine list, the basement wine bar flaunted its varied collection on the drink’s menu, with non-alcoholic options overleaf for those opting for a more teetotal approach to drinks ‘n’ nibbles. Speaking of, as an avid disciple of the ‘food for thought’ religion, nibbles couldn’t be overlooked. Crisp zucchini fritti had my name on it, but keen to avert my attention, the accompanying aioli had me licking the bowl clean. And now repeat after me, what’s the test of good Italian? Focaccia. And verdict’s in folks, this puts the competition to shame. Perhaps not for the keto-conscious, these oil drenched sponges were dripping in flavour, with salt crystals a-plenty to keep us knocking back the water and a texture so airy it put my pillow to shame.
Mains came in all their saccharide glory – two ragùs, one mushroom risotto and one gnocchi – the latter cushions of goodness served with butternut squash cubes and enough umami flavour to warrant a serious sweet treat. Despite the ragù wanting for a tad more oomph, and risotto a smidge more sparkle, it was smiles all round on the beige front, with a rough £15 price point keeping our bank balances just about on the right side of overdraft. I didn’t need a pudding, we know this. But what focaccia is to savoury, tiramisu is to sweet, thus in the name of investigative journalism I saw fit to test my control variable. Generous lashings of sinful components left me wholly satisfied, with a spoon soon requested by all those in attendance…in the name of research, of course. By this point, lights had dimmed further, the barmen had entered experimental mode, and all Gatsby-stroke-Shoreditch semblances amassed into a really quite charming vibe. Without wishing to sound like I’ve been paid off by Italian authorities to promote their new iterations, this is actually one I’ll head back to. Forza Italia, I guess.
Images provided by Charlotte Martin.