Rick's, Edinburgh

Rick's may have been voted one of the coolest places in the world, but it's already in danger of going out of fashion

Readers south of Hadrian's Wall may be unaware that Scotland, proud nation as it is, has its own celebrity hairstylists ­ let alone that there's one top figure in this field: Charlie Miller, a man whose 1960s name is matched by his 1960s moustache, with a hangdog expression that breaks periodically into a Des Lynam twinkle. Charlie has cut everyone's hair, from Paul "Gazza" Gascoigne in his days at Rangers to Carol "Smiley" Smiley. It will come as a relief to Nicky Clarke that, should Scotland achieve independence, he won't be fought over like a North Sea oil field. An independent Scotland will be self-sufficient in high-profile coiffure.

I was reminded of Charlie Miller when I paid a visit to Rick's, not just because it's two doors down from his salon in Edinburgh's Frederick Street (close enough for Carol or Paul ­ God forbid, given the 19 types of vodka on sale at Rick's ­ to drop in after a hard day under the drier). But because, like Miller's, Rick's celebrity is inflated by its location. This is not just a basement bar and restaurant with hotel rooms attached but also, reading between the lines of the Scottish press, proof that anything London can do in the way of casual sophistication, Edinburgh can equal ­ a belief recently reinforced by Condé Nast Traveller magazine, which chose Rick's as one of the 25 coolest places in the world to stay. Of all the bar/restaurant/hotels, in all the world, they happened to walk into this one.

Actually, the Casablanca thing is a red herring. No piano; no Rick; just a succession of uniformly willowy waiting staff, clad in uniform khaki. The nearest thing to Casablancan exoticism is one incongruous sheaf of giant bamboo poles, and the coriander, saffron and jasmine that spice up a menu strong on fresh fish but short on dishes that really pique the curiosity. Comfort food is what it does best. My guest chose well with the herb-smoked chicken and potato cakes and a pleasantly home-made tasting chorizo and cajun fettucine. The chef has a thing about balsamic, as I found when I tucked into duck with rocket salad and balsamic dressing, so soused in vinegar, that I lost my ability to taste.

Perhaps that's why the grilled lobster and lemon-herb butter tasted so bland, as did the Orkney Cheddar, brie and Stilton. Only the desserts ­ baked orange and lemon cheesecake, and honeycomb and chocolate ice-cream, decorated with the most delicate lattice of real honeycomb, totally satisfied. The bill came to £105.

Rick's likes to blur boundaries between its eating, drinking and sleeping bits. Red pouffey seating and papers at the front, which has a café feel, blurring into a more bar-ish area (at 8pm, like a Mediterranean hotel disco); then down a couple of steps and into a glazed over alleyway, which is where we were sat. The concept is simple: breaking down divisions between formal eating and informal drinking. But blaring bar music and a steady traipse of drinkers wobbling past to the loo, as you grabble with your lobster crackers, isn't conducive to a restful evening out.

The main trouble with restaurant bars, though, is that what looks good in a throbbing room, with drinkers standing, wreathed in smoke, and shouting above the music, is less impressive in the cold light of lunch next day. I can say this categorically because I did come back, and ordered a breaded pork escalope with baby spinach and a pleasingly chunky mash ­ which would have been perfect if it hadn't, again, been soused in balsamic.

And it was only then that I noticed the oppressive teak veneer slats, barely concealing the air-con units, and looking like they'd been hurriedly put in by Carol Smiley and the Changing Rooms team. And I began to realise how, only a few months after opening, everything is looking slightly beaten up ­ because, compared with restaurants, bars take a tremendous pounding: scuffed tiles, chipped wood, cracking paint. And, though it's not the end of the world ­ if you left it long enough it might solidify into "character" ­ you also know that once the mock teak stops looking retro and starts looking looking naff (sooner rather than later), Carol and the gang will be back to replace it with the latest fad in restaurant furnishings.

By then, the caravan of hype will have moved on, Edinburgh will have another bar-restaurant of the moment. And, with a bit of luck, balsamic will have gone out of fashion, too.