The Artichoke, 9 Market Square, Old Amersham, Buckinghamshire (01494 726 611). Lunch for two, including wine and service, £90.
From long service in classy restaurants I have concluded that there is an inverse correlation between good taste in matters of food, and good taste in matters of anything else. On any given night in London's Michelin-starred eateries, there are enough face-lifts to make a whole new person from the offcuts. Shoulder pads are worn unironically. Neck scarves are patterned in spiralling shades of vomit. At their best, shoes are hooker chic. And that's only the blokes.
A quick survey of the shop windows next to the Artichoke in Old Amersham suggests this lack of taste extends from London to Buckinghamshire. There is no doubt the county has gastronomic taste: there's the Vanilla Pod and the Compleat Angler at Marlow; there's the Plough at Beaconsfield, the Crooked Billet at Bletchley, Cliveden up at Taplow, plus a brace of fish restaurants around Amersham. But the stuff in those shop windows: oy vey! The kind of glassware that would be a talking point only in a Mike Leigh drama; the sort of dresses that bring back memories of Penelope Keith in The Good Life, and not in a warm fuzzy way. Then again, I should be careful, for my sister Amanda, a woman of impeccable taste, lives in Buckinghamshire. In any case, there are places like the Artichoke there which restore faith. The room is a smart renovation of an ancient beamed house, with some lovely glass panels and tasteful paintings. The wine list is short and intelligent. And the food, which is what counts, is stylishly French with some butch touches. The only thing the place lacks is a little punctuation. Take this menu description 'fillet of Aberdeen angus beetroot horseradish puree pomme fondant red wine liquorice sauce'. Is that Aberdeen angus beetroot? Or beetroot horseradish puree? Or puree pomme fondant? Where are the bloody commas? This kind of thing can be weirdly distracting. A dish first has to sell itself on the page, and if you have to struggle for understanding you are less likely to buy.
What we did buy was impressive, though. Amanda's starter of 'ravioli of goats cheese sun dried tomato fresh basil sauce beurre blanc' (in which the basil was part of the ravioli, rather than the beurre blanc) brought two fatly filled parcels of light pasta with a stuffing that managed to be assertive without any of that claggy-mouth feel that goat's cheese can deliver. I began with dainty caramelised scallops accompanied by a precise chicory tarte tatin, which was as intriguing in texture as flavour.
A main course of roast partridge brought the legs, confited, dressed with a little of the liver, on top of the roast breast. Beneath was a layer of bread sauce which, in turn, lay upon a little braised red cabbage. This was serious game cookery, which showed a light touch with hefty ingredients, so that careful spicing - a little clove and nutmeg - were allowed their moment on the plate. Beside it I thought Amanda's roast fillet of halibut on creamed lentils and a mercifully unfoamed mushroom cappuccino a little underseasoned. She disagreed. It was just a matter of getting all the ingredients on the fork at the same time, she said.
We finished with a chocolate fondant, and a chocolate-chip orange cake. Both made the grade, and for £29.50 for three courses, it felt like good value. The Artichoke is a smart outfit, the kind of restaurant you'd hope any fair-sized British town with a modicum of taste could support but, sadly, doesn't. All it needs now is a few commas.
