Mean portions at McDonald's

I've always been partial to a bit of Scottish tat. I once went out with a girl for over a year because the first time I set eyes on her she was wearing a tartan miniskirt.

I'm only a quarter Scottish myself, but I've always insisted on celebrating Hogmanay rather than New Year's Eve and, believe it or not, even have a special pair of Burberry plaid trousers that I wear for the occasion - clan McChav.

It was with a real spring in my step, therefore, that I set off to visit the Boisdale for lunch. This Scottish restaurant in the heart of Belgravia is owned by the head of the clan MacDonald and seemed tailor-made for a faux Scotsman like me.

The décor was certainly up to expectations. For a second I thought I was back in the gift shop at Aberdeen airport. The walls are festooned with portraits of bagpipe-playing Highlanders, all of whom look like they've been copied from tins of shortbread. Even the upholstery is MacDonald tartan. When I flushed the lavatory I half-expected to hear 'Mull of Kintyre'.

It was only when I started peppering the staff with questions that the scales began to fall from my eyes. I asked my Hispanic waiter whether they were planning a special Burns Night menu and he gave me a very blank look, clearly not having a clue what I was talking about. Was he from Barcelona?

I asked to see the manager - my reason for going there, after all, was because I wanted to sample whatever delicacies they were planning to commemorate Burns Night with - but he, too, didn't seem to know what I was talking about. He said that if I felt so inclined I could come to the restaurant on the night in question and order a haggis, but beyond that he couldn't help.

Given the lack of alternatives, I decided to start with a mini haggis, followed by a steak that was allegedly from the estate of the Duke of Buccleuch. At this point, the Boisdale did, at least, exhibit an authentically Scottish trait: the portions were fantastically small, the meanest I think I've ever seen in a London restaurant.

Both the mini haggis and the steak would have comfortably fitted into a small sporran. If William Wallace and his men had had to subsist on a diet as meagre as this, they never would have been able to mount a rebellion.

I know Scotland isn't famous for its cuisine, but I've had better food than this in a greasy spoon in Glasgow. The meat was tough, the chips were soggy and the green beans were overcooked. My haggis wasn't bad - both mouthfuls were quite tasty - but it was nothing to write home about. I expected better from London's most famous Highland restaurant.

The other diners looked about as Scottish as the Queen does when she sticks on a kilt and goes to Balmoral for the weekend. They were the sort of McSloanes who blow a gasket if you happen to call them 'Scotch' rather than 'Scots'. (I find it's safer to stick to the all-purpose 'Jocks'.) As far as I could work out, their principal connection to the mother country was having consumed large quantities of whisky the night before.

On the way out, I spotted a large selection of Cuban cigars in a glass case - and then remembered that on the back of my menu was a picture of a Bonnie Prince Charlie type puffing away on a Cohiba. Clearly, in Mr MacDonald's mind, there's some link between Scotland and Cuba. But what? I asked the receptionist if she could enlighten me.

'Sorry sir,' she said. 'I've absolutely no idea.'

Boisdale
Eccleston Street, London, SW1W 9LX