'Get changed?! To go to Turville?!!" cried the Aged Parent. "No one gets changed to go to Turville." How true, how very true. People dress down to go to Turville.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me explain. Turville is one of those decorative little villages that speckles the hills and valleys of the Chilterns with the sanctity of good taste. So fastidious are these clusters of flint and red-brick homes that they don't even reek of money, although they represent one of the great concentrations of wealth in the country. They are the rural bolt-holes of computer whizzes, bond dealers and media giants who have made it, and lots of it, for whom a better quality of life begins with the commute back from London. And when they get back, the first thing they do is strip off the pinstripe uniform and dress down to go out for a pint and maybe a spot of dinner at the Bull & Butcher.

It had been an adventure for us getting there, as the whole area appeared to be awash. I had to rely on the AP's local knowledge to steer us from Henley to Turville, as many of the back roads had become gushing water courses as a result of long moribund springs within the hills surging back to life after our recent rains. Luckily, the Bull & Butcher itself seemed immune to watery worries, although not free from earthly ones.

Indeed, there was a faint echo of Basil Fawlty about mine host that evening, being curtly dismissive of occasional visitors such as ourselves, while lavishing attention on the down-dressers at the bar. He seemed slightly overwhelmed by events, and later muttered that it had been an evening of unparalleled horrors. By that time, the AP and I considered ourselves lucky to be getting anything at all, chaos in minor forms having invaded the meeting and greeting, the distribution of menus and the drink orders. However, once I had been quieted with a pint of impeccable Brakspear's Bitter and the AP had settled to the bottle of Vacqueras, things looked up.

You can tell that the pub is in a rich village because it has no music, no electronic games, no theming, no fake and fancy Victorian mirrors and ersatz agricultural knick-knacks. It has real fires, real stone flagstones, real beams, real beer and real food. Here is hot home-smoked pastrami on rye, coarse chicken liver and pork pté, warm salad of scallops and wild mushrooms, grilled sirloin steak with fries and salad, breast of duckling with confit potato, blackcurrant and liquorice sauce, and grilled brochette of tandoori vegetables, bindi bhaji and Bombay potatoes. With the exception of the liquorice in the duckling's sauce and the tandoori vegetables, there isn't anything wildly outré about such dishes, but I think most of us would find something to relate to. The AP related to salad of smoked duck, poached pear and Roquefort and then rump of lamb roasted with garlic, dauphinoise potatoes, pak choi and wild mushrooms; I to terrine of smoked haddock, spinach and potato before calves' liver, pecorino mash, smoked bacon and seasonal veg.

You couldn't fault the portion control. The AP's duck, pear and cheese, generous though the primary ingredients were, was almost invisible among the welter of leaves, beetroot, spring onions and other vegetable storm damage. And thank heavens the terrine was a substantial block, because it was in danger of resembling a lost city of Central America hidden beneath a vast mat of jungle. The terrine itself was a nice idea that might have been nicer if it had been marginally less gelid. Obviously, it had only recently escaped the fridge.

The AP was not impressed by her lamb, which was served on a similarly liberal scale. Nice gravy, she said, but the meat tasted of nothing, and something had gone wrong with the gratin that gave it the texture of melted plastic. She approved the most of the whole roasted head of garlic. However, whoever cooked my liver knew exactly what they were about. It was impeccable: tender velvet within a crisp veneer. The mash was best left alone, but the cabbage and gravy were just the job.

This just left me room for steamed syrup pudding with custard, which, given the speed of its delivery, clearly had not been steamed at the last minute. I suspected microwave magic, but was too polite to say so. Lemon crème brlée ice cream gave the AP more pleasure than the rest of the meal put together: she was very cheered by this classy deal, made with soft meringue, which gave it a disarmingly soft texture.

In the growing company of gastro-pubs, on this showing the Bull & Butcher is one of the foot soldiers, a face in the crowd, characterful certainly, but lacking real class. The bill was £69.05, which included the Vacqueras (a modest wine) at £21 and my beer, so the food damage was a relatively light £46. I say relatively, because were you not so greedy you would do well with two courses. But as we thought that we might well be marooned on the way back, we were grateful for the extra calories