Prestonfield, just outside the city centre and not far from the Royal Commonwealth Pool, is absurd. But so, in its own way, is Edinburgh Castle, perched precariously on a few slabs of rock a mile up the road. So are Bruce Forsyth, Britney Spears, Patrick Moore, Paris Hilton and John Prescott, for that matter.
Nothing wrong with being absurd. It's just that Rhubarb tries so hard to be really, really absurd that it ends up looking plain daft. Even the peacocks strutting about on the lawn outside this 17th-century manor house would prefer to be housed in a proper zoo.
We have drinks seated on chairs with antlers for backs. The walls are green and mauve with over-polished paintings of horses and men in turbans hanging on them, longing to be noticed. A man in a kilt walks in and gives us menus. Through the windows we can see trees lit by blue light. This is fun - for the moment.
There is a two-course set dinner for £25, with a choice of four starters and four main courses, or an à la carte menu that works out at around £40 a head. I am confident the students will opt for the set menu but despite my repeated asides about "gosh that looks good value" only one of them gets the hint.
Prestonfield likes to think of itself as opulent, what with all its upholstered walls, velvet swags, patterned carpets and darkened recesses. Silly is more accurate, rather like the person who decreed that forks here should face down on the table and that almost all starters should come with potatoes.
I kick off with an asparagus, potato and hazelnut salad with quail and crispy leeks, which is as chaotic as the Scottish elections, producing no overall winner, although the overcooked asparagus might claim otherwise.
Two of the students have scallops sitting on potatoes, which is probably better than potatoes sitting on scallops. One of our party has ordered cauliflower ravioli and is far too polite to agree when I tell her it looks congealed, but she does say that it is "on the sweet side". The red mullet that comes with melon couscous is a better choice, but the best starter by far is roast breast of wood pigeon with creamed cabbage and beetroot, from the set menu.
Clutter central: a waiter attending to a table
A couple of big dates are going on at tables behind us. At least, that is the analysis from one of the students, who says: "If a bloke brings a girl here it shows real intent." But what does it say about his taste? Or his understanding of the value of money? Or his preoccupation with spuds?
Certainly my roast fillet of veal main course is a big misjudgement. What arrives is a platter big enough for three. There is a pile of meat in the middle and three smaller ones of Parma ham positioned around the side, along with a purée of peas and mint. The remainder of the plate is covered by rocket and watercress.
The veal is barely warm and it looks so unappetising that I start eyeing up one of the student's chicken, Parma ham and basil roulades. Within seconds, he is offering me a chunk as if desperate to get rid of it. No wonder. It has the texture of India rubber and the salty ham masks any taste of chicken.
To my right, a clever undergraduate is trying to work out the logic of sea bass accompanied by plodding tortellini and what we think is a potato although it might be celeriac. We aren't quite sure.
Elsewhere, there is no doubting the potato gratin with the lamb en croûte, which one of the students says he is enjoying, but then I notice that he has hidden much of it under his knife and fork. None of the students asks why the restaurant is called Rhubarb, but I tell them anyway. It's because one of the house's earliest owners, Sir Alexander Dick, was the first man to bring rhubarb seeds back from China.
This timely piece of inside knowledge is the perfect excuse to order two "Rhubarb tasting plates" featuring three rhubarb creations, including one ice cream. I make sure the plate makes several undeserved laps of honour around the table, but there aren't many takers after all that potato and Parma ham.
Next up is a complimentary plate of fudge, coconut macaroons and assorted biscuits, which goes untouched.
It takes forever to catch the attention of a waiter to ask for the bill. Which surprises me. I thought the staff would be longing to escape the studied excesses of Rhubarb. Perhaps they are just embarrassed at giving us a bill at all. Oh, by the way, the chef's name is John McMahon.
Rhubarb, Prestonfield, Priestfield Road, Edinburgh (http://www.prestonfield.com/; 0131 225 1333). Dinner for two, with wine but excluding service, £110
Mark's verdict: 2/10
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