The mysteries of Scotch Steak House remain virgo intacta: my friend and I arrived, fully intending to take whatever this mysterious chain dished out, at the one in the Strand. It was, of course, entirely empty – except for one very tiny little old man in friont of a huge plate, with abt 10 lambchops on it and nothing else. We sat down and looked round: decor red and green as per tradition, mirrored walls, no staff to be seen even behind the bar, curious synthesised jazz-lite muzak. We sat. And we sat. And we sat. Without even a menu to read. After ten minutes, a waiter appeared, looked at us, went away. Later another man appeared in the very back and answered a ringing phone. We were hungry by now, so we took the hint and went elsewhere.