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Edinburgh's Most Mysterious Restaurant: Aghtamar Lake Van Monastery in Exile
Edinburgh's only Armenian restaurant, the Aghtamar Lake Van Monastery
in Exile is a legendary, almost mythical destination.
Cloaked in mystery, it's based in an un-signposted, former police
station in Abbeyhill where its only advertising is through word of
mouth. It boasts reputedly sensational cuisine; a 10 course banquet
prepared with love, care and a dollop of authenticity.
Opening its doors sporadically it is famously difficult to get a table
and accepts no walk-ins. The food is cooked and served by the
eccentric, Basil Fawlty-esque chef/owner Petros Vartynian, who is
alleged to berate and eject customers for minor, perceived infractions
like turning up late or asking for more wine. The hyperbole emanating
from those who have eaten here has attracted many to try and get a
booking, mostly without success. The stories of the lucky few that did
succeed have become Edinburgh foodie folklore.
The sense of mystery pervades to this day. The restaurant is still
listed in the online Yellow pages and the line is still in service but
despite several messages, no response has been forthcoming.
The internet doesn't provide much more. There are five or six positive
reviews scattered around different websites, with the last one dated
in 2009, but nothing concrete to suggest the Aghtamar is even still
open.
I wandered down to the location at 55 Abbeyhill. It showed no sign of
life. Locals seemed to find the idea of a restaurant there absurd and
no-one I spoke to knew anything about this culinary hotspot.
Stumped, I mentioned the Aghtamar to a my friend Francis Owen, a
former restaurateur who instantly recognized the name and proceeded to
tell me of his multiple visits to the restaurant:
`I turned up at 8pm, and knocked on the door. The owner stuck his head
out and inspected my group with a vaguely disgusted look on his face.
It was the kind of reception you might receive after cold calling a
pensioner at 11pm. He was austere and had more than a touch of a
Quentin Tarantino character about him, with his wild beard and
piercing stare. I call him `he' because at no point during my visits
did he give his name'
In an online review someone a little braver had described asking for
his name and the owner simply said: `That's a little personal' and
wandered away looking offended.
As I listened intently, Francis described the atmosphere as he walked
through the door. The main eating hall was vast, cold and dark with
only candle-light to guide your steps. There didn't appear to be
electricity. A giant moose head adorned the wall and various different
posters advertising the Armenian tourist board were scattered around.
There was a ghetto-blaster in the corner playing what sounded like red
army choir music from an old, scratchy cassette. `The whole place had
a Soviet era, beyond the iron curtain feel' he said. `There were no
amenities like heating, menus or salt and pepper`
`We asked for wine. The owner would judge whether or not you could
handle it. I heard that he monitored how often individuals went to the
toilet for signs of alcohol intake and he would throw out potential
inebriates. Once, my table drank a bottle and asked for another but
were told we had had enough. We didn't argue'
Francis said the food was `take it or leave it' with no choices and it
took around three hours to get through all the courses. The food was
always `excellent and unlike anything else served in Edinburgh at the
time'.
`The best dish had minced pork and rice rolled up in cabbage leaves.
The whole thing was steamed and served with a very nice salad with an
amazing dressing. Dessert was also very memorable, a sort of fruit
trifle, with very pungent flavours. The meal ended with a very strong
Armenian style coffee.'
The coffee is at the centre of an interesting rumour when someone had
the temerity to reject the Armenian coffee and request Turkish
instead. Turkey and Armenia have quite lengthy historical bad blood
and this request was like a red rag to a bull. In a sudden rage the
owner unceremoniously threw out the entire group, ignoring their
apologies and protestations. Francis commented: `I think most saw the
owner as part of the charm, temper and all. It wasn't really about a
meal it was about an experience'.
There is evidence that suggests that the Aghtamar has now sadly shut.
In an obscure Armenian publication called Yerevan there is a short
article stating the restaurant closed in November 2012 and is being
turned into an Armenian cultural centre. It is the most direct
evidence of the restaurant's demise, but that's not to say it's
definitive. Like everything else about this fabled place, there are
few certainties. No matter what its current status is, the Aghtamar
Lake Van Monastery in Exile will endure in legend as one of
Edinburgh's most unusual and mysterious restaurants.
Edinburgh's Most Mysterious Restaurant: Aghtamar Lake Van Monastery in Exile
Edinburgh's only Armenian restaurant, the Aghtamar Lake Van Monastery
in Exile is a legendary, almost mythical destination.
Cloaked in mystery, it's based in an un-signposted, former police
station in Abbeyhill where its only advertising is through word of
mouth. It boasts reputedly sensational cuisine; a 10 course banquet
prepared with love, care and a dollop of authenticity.
Opening its doors sporadically it is famously difficult to get a table
and accepts no walk-ins. The food is cooked and served by the
eccentric, Basil Fawlty-esque chef/owner Petros Vartynian, who is
alleged to berate and eject customers for minor, perceived infractions
like turning up late or asking for more wine. The hyperbole emanating
from those who have eaten here has attracted many to try and get a
booking, mostly without success. The stories of the lucky few that did
succeed have become Edinburgh foodie folklore.
The sense of mystery pervades to this day. The restaurant is still
listed in the online Yellow pages and the line is still in service but
despite several messages, no response has been forthcoming.
The internet doesn't provide much more. There are five or six positive
reviews scattered around different websites, with the last one dated
in 2009, but nothing concrete to suggest the Aghtamar is even still
open.
I wandered down to the location at 55 Abbeyhill. It showed no sign of
life. Locals seemed to find the idea of a restaurant there absurd and
no-one I spoke to knew anything about this culinary hotspot.
Stumped, I mentioned the Aghtamar to a my friend Francis Owen, a
former restaurateur who instantly recognized the name and proceeded to
tell me of his multiple visits to the restaurant:
`I turned up at 8pm, and knocked on the door. The owner stuck his head
out and inspected my group with a vaguely disgusted look on his face.
It was the kind of reception you might receive after cold calling a
pensioner at 11pm. He was austere and had more than a touch of a
Quentin Tarantino character about him, with his wild beard and
piercing stare. I call him `he' because at no point during my visits
did he give his name'
In an online review someone a little braver had described asking for
his name and the owner simply said: `That's a little personal' and
wandered away looking offended.
As I listened intently, Francis described the atmosphere as he walked
through the door. The main eating hall was vast, cold and dark with
only candle-light to guide your steps. There didn't appear to be
electricity. A giant moose head adorned the wall and various different
posters advertising the Armenian tourist board were scattered around.
There was a ghetto-blaster in the corner playing what sounded like red
army choir music from an old, scratchy cassette. `The whole place had
a Soviet era, beyond the iron curtain feel' he said. `There were no
amenities like heating, menus or salt and pepper`
`We asked for wine. The owner would judge whether or not you could
handle it. I heard that he monitored how often individuals went to the
toilet for signs of alcohol intake and he would throw out potential
inebriates. Once, my table drank a bottle and asked for another but
were told we had had enough. We didn't argue'
Francis said the food was `take it or leave it' with no choices and it
took around three hours to get through all the courses. The food was
always `excellent and unlike anything else served in Edinburgh at the
time'.
`The best dish had minced pork and rice rolled up in cabbage leaves.
The whole thing was steamed and served with a very nice salad with an
amazing dressing. Dessert was also very memorable, a sort of fruit
trifle, with very pungent flavours. The meal ended with a very strong
Armenian style coffee.'
The coffee is at the centre of an interesting rumour when someone had
the temerity to reject the Armenian coffee and request Turkish
instead. Turkey and Armenia have quite lengthy historical bad blood
and this request was like a red rag to a bull. In a sudden rage the
owner unceremoniously threw out the entire group, ignoring their
apologies and protestations. Francis commented: `I think most saw the
owner as part of the charm, temper and all. It wasn't really about a
meal it was about an experience'.
There is evidence that suggests that the Aghtamar has now sadly shut.
In an obscure Armenian publication called Yerevan there is a short
article stating the restaurant closed in November 2012 and is being
turned into an Armenian cultural centre. It is the most direct
evidence of the restaurant's demise, but that's not to say it's
definitive. Like everything else about this fabled place, there are
few certainties. No matter what its current status is, the Aghtamar
Lake Van Monastery in Exile will endure in legend as one of
Edinburgh's most unusual and mysterious restaurants.