Alla Turka

Like many national boundaries, however, it is safe to assume that the one that today separates Greek from Turk has not historically been a fixed line, save perhaps for the works of cartographers and hardcore nationalists. And so, as is often the case, the cuisine of a region has little or indeed nothing to do with modern notions of sovereignty or statehood.

Alla Turca is the new occupant of a site in Pitt Street that has been previously a North African and then, briefly, a Kurdish restaurant. It is a mere stone's throw from Sauchiehall Street, but a lack of consistent business hurt those operations. But on a recent Saturday night, at least, Alla Turca was full to bursting (for better or worse).

The menu of traditional and modern Turkish dishes - or, as the PR offers, "Turkish with style" - does indeed resemble many Greek dishes. It includes a full selection of meze, such as sarma (vine leaves stuffed with rice and pine nuts) and taboule (parsley, tomato, onion, mint, cous cous). Other first-course options include baked figs stuffed with Turkish Lor cheese or char-grilled cinnamon lamb kofte. Main courses begin with the traditional barbecue but include pan-fried spiced duck breast and - more surprisingly - belly of Ayrshire pork among the "modern Turkish" options. Complimentary humous and marinated olives with soft flatbread start the meal. From a sampling of opening courses, the smoky babaganus is the star, while the salt and pepper squid is somewhat rubbery. Falafel, made with broad beans as well as chickpeas, have a subtle chilli kick and sesame-seed coating. What a shame that the order included only three of them (so they cost more than £1 each).

Among the mains, the mixed grill is let down only by being served at a tepid temperature. Otherwise, the selection of lamb cutlet, mince (kofte), chicken and lamb chunks with barbecued veg, Turkish rice and salad with a lovely bit of beetroot is satisfying. A plate of vegetarian makarna alla Turca is a surprise. Lots of spaghetti noodles smothered in a doubly tart dressing of creamy yoghurt and lemon juice. What makes the dish work is lashings of spicy chilli and parsley relish served on the side: it cuts the intensity of the sour sauce.

Alla Turca means "the Turkish Melody" and music is major part of the programme. A mandolin, or more accurately a baglama, player is precariously perched on a narrow platform between the front door and the maitre d's podium - an arrangement that stops a few punters in the their tracks. His playing of traditional folk tunes is comforting (although a rendition of Stairway to Heaven is perhaps ill-advised). At some point Turkish dancers are expected: there is no space for any whirling dervishes amid the tightly packed glass tables, although a set of undulating bellies might just work.

Alas, Saturday night syndrome begins to set in. It is becoming so busy that service slows, even though all hands on deck appear busy. Empty plates linger as the demands of a full house - not to mention a room full of women, bearing hen night T-shirts, in the private dining space below - reach their apex. Curiously and possibly encouragingly, staff aren't eager to say good night. So my request for the bill prompts the delivery of dessert menus, instead. There's that Greek cross-over again: baklava. Next time, perhaps.