The Griffin Inn: 9.5/10
Telephone: 01825 722890
Address: Fletching, near Uckfield, East Sussex
Open: All week, lunch, 12-2.30pm; dinner, 7-9.30pm (last orders)

One of the few drawbacks to life on this cushiest of journalistic outposts is the passionate recommendation of friends. "You've got to try this brilliant restaurant that's opened up round the corner," one might enthuse. "The chef's from Tromsk, and he does this Prussian-Szechuan-Amazon Delta fusion thing with Sino-Albanian influences. It's incredible." So you trudge dutifully along and at the end of the meal, with half the room cordoned off to allow medical teams to operate in privacy on diners suffering multiple organ failure induced by a virulent new strain of salmonella, the proselytiser gazes at you with puppy dog eyes, and says, "So, what do you think?"

In the case of the particular friend who recommended the Griffin Inn, the fear was especially acute. In this case it wasn't the possibility of insane pretension that caused the concern - oaky and low-beamed 400-year-old buildings in East Sussex villages seldom succumb to the lure of crazed adventurism. Besides, while this friend and his wife may not be the most pernickety eaters ever (to borrow from Martin Amis on the gravel-laden tones of top-ranked darts caller Russ "The Voice" Bray), they are certainly the most pernickety eaters yet, sharing a morbid terror of what they call "dirty food" (any dish in which each ingredient isn't separated from all the others by at least a two-inch cordon sanitaire).

No, what worried me here was that this friend is known as The Angel Of Death for his uncanny gift (a culinary expression of Oscar Wilde's saw about each man destroying the thing he loves) of destroying restaurants with his praise. Three times he has raved to me about somewhere near his old home in London's Dickensian Clerkenwell. And three times, yea even as Peter thrice denied Christ at the crowing of the cock, that same somewhere went bust within a calendar month.

Now that my friend has become a gentleman farmer in one of our most arid foodie deserts, the last thing I wanted from him was another rapturous tip-off. But it duly arrived, needless to say, and so it was with a tremulous heart that I sat down in the Griffin Inn's dining room (polished floorboards, brickwork fireplace, antique light fittings, jolly Victorian prints of hunting and political scenes, a sunflower on every table; all very engaging in a chic-farmhouse kind of way). "You're going to love this," he said. "It's really proper food." And I found myself staring mournfully at the friendly waitress, wondering how easily she'd be able to find another job.

Within five seconds of biting into a slice of homemade focaccia, however, the fear abated. Bread is almost invariably a reliable predictor. This little loaf, served with truly vestal olive oil, was memorably good, and what followed it necessitates one of those unremittingly gushing reviews that so few of us care to read. But what can you do when every dish is the immaculate synthesis of outstanding ingredients and technically excellent cooking?

A bruschetta of marinated artichoke, roasted red onions and melted taleggio was imaginative, piquant and delicious, and a fillet of beef carpaccio with a potent onion confit, wild rocket, shaved manchego and a crunchy salad provided "a beautiful combination of textures and taste". Meanwhile, my starter cleverly matched the saltiness of unusually good chorizo with the reassuring blandness of squid, the latter pan-fried with loads of chilli and ginger.

The main courses, served in rustic portions on big white plates, were better still. Four huge, deep pink, intensely flavoursome chunks of rump of Romney Marsh lamb, served with lovely, semi-caramelised wood-roasted vegetables, were "sensational". As was my pan-roasted guinea fowl with wild mushrooms and great mash in a creamy, sherry-tinged sauce.

The big surprise was to find the Griffin's sponsor lustily setting about a risotto with roast butternut squash and taleggio. Isn't that dirty food, I asked.

"Risotto's clean, actually," my friend said. "I can't explain it. It's a very, very fine nuance, and far too subtle for you. But it's wonderful. Usually risotto gets repetitive, but there are so many flavours here that it sort of keeps evolving."

Puddings were spectacular, too. At least my chocolate nemesis with crème fraîche was, and I assumed the same about the apple and blackberry crumble with clotted cream on the other side of the table. "I don't want to discuss it," was the curt reply to my inquiry. "It's private. It's like I'm having an affair with it."

We settled up, strolled around the pretty gardens overlooking the Ouse valley, and took a turn through a picturesque village that was home to "Professor" Jimmy Edwards in those pre-PC gone mad days when a homosexual headmaster striking boys on the bum was the genesis for a TV sitcom. The family who own the Griffin Inn bought it in the early 70s, at about the time that Whacko! was being revived on ITV. And despite the best efforts of The Angel Of Death, they will continue caning it for as long as they wish.

The bill

Squid with chorizo £8.50

Beef carpaccio £8.50

Bruschetta £8

Rump of lamb £19

Risotto £12

Guinea fowl £15

Apple and blackberry crumble £6

Vanilla pannacotta £6

Chocolate nemesis £6

Pint of Guinness £6

Bottle of water £3.50

Apple juice £2

Three filter coffees £5.25

Subtotal £105.75

Tip £14.25

Total £120