Bryce's Fresh Fish Restaurant, 4.75/10

Telephone: 01306 627 430
Address: Stane Street, Ockley, near Dorking, Surrey
Open: All week, lunch, noon-3pm; dinner, 7-9pm (last orders).

As close students of the unending Democratic nomination process will know, you cannot avoid the contrived lowering of expectations in modern politics. If Obama is poised to win a primary, Clinton's people brief that it's an uphill struggle in a state that the Democrats can't hope to win come November; while on the eve of a Clinton victory, an Obama spokesman will dwell on the hostile demographics. If the Kazakhs ever go to the polls, no doubt a spinner will inform the state broadcaster, "We anticipate a very close race. Given the adverse weather, President Nazarbayev will be content with 102.3% of the popular vote." No election is held anywhere without pre-emptive damage limitation. Never until now, however, have I seen it on a restaurant menu.

"Hello, welcome to Bryce's Fresh Fish Restaurant," declares the bill of fare at a cosy, characterful seafood joint in the Surrey village that is home to Katie Price and Peter Andre. "Sometimes we run out of fresh fish," the blurb continues. "That's not because we don't buy enough, but there may not be very much available. We buy limited quantities because we feel you will appreciate the freshness and good taste."

I have spent ages trying to reconcile those two sentences, but apart from a vague sense that buried somewhere in the prose is an exquisitely clever catch-22, I'm more baffled than ever. Does this mean that a) they do buy enough fresh fish even though there isn't enough fresh fish to be bought; or b) they don't buy enough fresh fish because that would compromise the rarity value of eating fresh fish? Or both? Or neither? Or something entirely different? Or nothing at all?

All you can say with confidence is this - for anywhere that calls itself Bryce's Fresh Fish Restaurant to make a virtue out of being in no position to serve fresh fish displays a level of mental and linguistic dexterity that we should all salute.

There are other things to admire. For somewhere that opened in the 90s to contrive such an authentically early 70s aura (thick brown carpet, little copper pots all over the walls, "What a great plaice!" on the menu) suggests the perfect commitment to nostalgia for a home county resolutely rooted in the heyday of the Sweet. Peter Alliss would feel at home in the pub bit here, you feel, fondly recalling the days when everyone would address a 19-year-old copper as "Sir" and you could turn on BBC1 at tea time without being assailed by lesbian sex.

Chronic sufferers from APS (Audible Pipe Syndrome) must be catered for, too, of course, and judging by the bustly sound of gin'n'Jag septuagenarians chomping merrily away, this "great plaice" does it well. At first we were with them, because the staff couldn't have been sweeter with my admittedly glorious two-year-old niece, Ellie, and because none of the starters from our set meals (there is no à la carte here) offered any hint of what was to come.

Langoustine bisque needed only a dash of brandy to elevate it above the decent; plump, steamed Shetland mussels came in a delicate cream marinade; both oysters and a crab and crayfish cocktail were blameless; and juicy queen scallops were glazed with a fine, perky hollandaise.

Only when the main courses arrived did the intent of that curious blurb, if not its meaning, become plain. Ordinarily I might have felt obliged to moan about a catastrophically arid and spongy whole brill with the uncannily precise texture and flavour of powdered mash. But what would have been the point when the waitress could have pointed peremptorily to the menu and said, "Look, chum, you can't claim we didn't warn you"?

Fillets of sea bass, served with a good prawn risotto, may have been exploding with freshness when they entered the freezer, but had they been served when this building was still a boarding school, the response would have made the latter scenes of If... look like tea, cake and irregular Greek verbs in Mr Chips's sitting room. Challenge though it is to remove every vestige of taste from sea bass, you'd have thought it quite impossible with so opinionated a piscine form as smoked haddock. But apparently not. Fillets of lemon sole Florentine were confusingly excellent, and provoked the cry, "My God, someone had better warn the chef that this tastes of fish!" while the undisputed star of the seafood show, perhaps inevitably, was an irreproachably tender char-grilled fillet of beef.

Puddings were fine, if uninspired, service was warm and competent, and the wine list, although little more than an exercise in rounding up the usual suspects, took no grotesque liberties. And no wonder. In what may be the planet's only "fresh fish" restaurant that greets customers with a warning about the possible dearth of fresh fish, there can hardly be massive reserves of chutzpah left to spread around.

The bill

5 x £31 set-menu meals £155

Langoustine bisque

Shetland mussels

Crab & crayfish cocktail

Queen scallops

Oysters - supplement
=£3

Whole brill

Sea bass with prawn risotto

Lemon sole Florentine

Smoked haddock

Fillet steak - supplement
=£5

2 bottles Sancerre £50

1 small bottle water £1.10

4 filter coffees £7.80

1 espresso £1.65

Subtotal £223.55

Tip £30

Total £253.55