Excuse me? Am I in the same restaurant? The very same resaturant that has been panned, pummelled and parodied in the popular prints? The one at the wrong end of Leith (as if there is a wrong end), where the decor is dated, the pictures awful, the dishes stuck in the 1990s and one of Scotland's best chefs has been told - wait for it - it's time to fold his apron? Er, apparently.

Now a confession. I haven't fully assessed the paintings (or are they prints?) because frankly I couldn't give a damn. Though I can tell you there is absolutely nothing wrong with the decor, it being crisp and white and lemony and remarkably like the decor in rural Crossmichael, where the oh-so successful Plumed Horse has oh-so-contraversially and apparently oh-so-foolishly relocated from.

The other reason I haven't assessed them is because I'm currently assessing the food. Well maybe not assessing, more marvelling at.

I'll tell you right now, the pre-starter of cold cucumber and shallot with a red pepper sorbet is one of those dishes you simply do not forget. Why? Because the foam, or froth, at the top - the Michelin-style must-have - works perfectly, evaporating instantly in the mouth and leaving nothing but a burst of cucumber freshness, only wiped away by the intensely deep, sweet and satisfying sorbet. Sensational.

Why? Because it's the first time I have ever tasted it exactly as it should be. But hey, a bit of background. The bloke in there, through the kitchen door. The guy with the handlebar 'tache and stripey strides is Tony Borthwick and he's fighting for his culinary life. He must be wondering why he surrendered his Michelin star in sleepy Crossmichael to move here and have his chef's whites booted up and down his kitchen floor by every critic in the land.

Why the media feeding frenzy? Perhaps it was the prices, perhaps it was the open season when that Michelin star was surrendered, perhaps Edinburgh occasionally disappears up its own backside, or perhaps everybody simply jumped on the bandwagon. I don't know. But I can tell you this: it cannot be the food. Not on tonight's showing anyway. The fish curry, a culinary joke based on the fact this used to be an Indian restaurant, is a thing of beauty. Prettier than any picture, containg small fillets of John Dory, of Red Mullet, of bream, surf clams, langoustine and an oyster all teased and turned into a spectacular, beautifully crisped, coloured tower and set in a sauce that contains caviar and garam masala and all sorts of other dense, rich flavours. Outstanding.

As in the chicken and foie gras lasagne, perhaps a little pale, but bouncing with delicate flavour and containing Borthwick's favourite ingredient, Banyuls raisins. Full marks too for the dark and woody mushroom sauce. I could go on. In fact I will. The delicate poached monkfish cheeks with those gorgeous-tasting langoustines? Perfect. The accompanying pomme purée, crisped like Swiss rosti and set in a chocolate-coloured chateauneuf-du-pape sauce that glistened with buttery thickness? Perfect too. Plus - and this is the important thing - it's the second memorably different dish I've had in this meal. Even the much-maligned pork is good (though I've had more strongly flavoured), the cheek being cripy and satisfying the loin pale and tender, and with a decent kick from the horseradish.

Even, and I do mean even again, the warm mascarpone rice pudding with its crunchy top, sweet Italian stickiness and poached plums hidden in the depths is damn near flawless. Now, surely at this point you, like me, will be wondering how a guy who had a Michelin star for six years, who was Scotland's chef of the year moments ago, could suddenly get it so wrong and, as is claimed, screw up big style in Edinburgh. The answer is simple. He hasn't.

So get yourself to The Plumed Horse as fast as you can while everyone else is labouring under the delusion Tony Borthwick has lost it.