We had been meaning to go to the Restaurant La Fontaine in Arncott for a year or more, having been told it was pretty good by The Oxford Times's dance critic David Bellan. His artist wife, Suzanne O'Driscoll, has her studio in the next village, and they had been to the restaurant a couple of times and enjoyed it. David made the same recommendation to another of his friends. This gentleman drove backwards and forwards through Arncott in a fruitless search for the establishment. Eventually, he went into the Tally Ho pub and asked where it was. "It's here," came the reply.

The perfect opportunity for us to try La Fontaine appeared to have come two weeks ago, with an invitation to an early Saturday evening private view of Suzanne's Artweeks exhibition. But when I rang the day before to make a booking, I discovered La Fontaine was no more. The restaurant was changing its style, I was told. There would be a concentration on fish and seafood from now on. There was an opening party that very night; tomorrow we would be among the first customers at . . . the Fish Bone.

"What's in a name?" asked Shakespeare. Rather a lot in the restaurant business, I would suggest. And Fish Bone is not one to inspire confidence, is it? Highlighting the part people least like about fish, guts excepted, the name immediately conjures to mind a pack of mangy cats making off with their booty from a stinking dustbin, or slightly up the social scale Her Majesty the Queen Mother, for whom bones seem to have presented a perennial dinner-time problem, expectorating her way towards an East Anglian hospital.

As silly names go it is perhaps not quite in the same league as Whitbread's Out & Out restaurant concept. You would have thought that someone in that vast enterprise would have recognised that this was a no-no. Nice things aren't 'out and out'; but nasty things are, like villains and disasters which is what I predicted this piece of nomenclature would quickly prove. Such was the case. A year or so after the launch of this vastly costly exercise in branding, Whitbread's chief executive Alan Parker announced Out & Out sites were to be converted to Beefeaters or sold. Now, if they'd asked me in the first place . . .

Arriving at the Fish Bone at the time specified, 8.30pm, Rosemarie, Olive and I were hardly given the sunniest welcome. Indeed, there was some question about whether we could be fitted in at all (odd, since the restaurant turned out to be roughly a third full, if that). Once I made clear that we had booked, however, we were shown into a comfortably furnished bar pleasing contemporary styling with lots of leather arch chairs. Efforts were twice made to persuade us to order drinks while "your table is being prepared" which ought to have been done earlier, you might have thought. I firmly said we had already had a drink (at the private view) and would like to see the menu while we waited.

My first thought was that this looked distinctly less influenced by the sea than I had been led to expect. True, there were three starters that fitted the bill "real French fish soup (Marseilles recipe)", tian of Dorset crabmeat and half a dozen oysters over ice or "Kill Patrick", a jocular reference presumably (though it could easily be taken for a crass error) to Oysters Kilpatrick, in which the molluscs are baked with bacon. But the only main courses offered were pan-fried salmon (yawn) and fresh Dover Sole, which we heard the waiter telling another customer was already sold out.

Later, we were to learn of other things that had sold out. These included the starter of chicken liver parfait and the main course of roasted rump of lamb, which torpedoed Olive's order just as she was about to give it. Also no longer available were the oysters, au naturel or Kill Patrick, and, when we got to pudding, the baked bitter chocolate praline fondant.

But surprise, surprise the Dover sold turned out not to be sold out after all, though I rather wished it had been. It was, by some margin, the costliest thing on the menu at £25, but reckless of expense I ordered it. It was a large fish, occupying most of the plate. No help was offered in boning it, as is proper in places where so much is asked for a fish. Perhaps it was realised that its falling so easily from the bone would immediately reveal the fact apparent as soon as I began eating it that it was overcooked.

A curious feature of an overcooked sole is that it takes on the rubbery dryness that you might expect from a fish that has not been in the pan long enough. This one had it, though fortunately such was the size of the fish there were patches that maintained proper moistness and tenderness. The caper and butter sauce was fine, but my enjoyment of the fish was not enhanced by its being encased in a thick coating of flour. It came with rice and a side order of spinach, which cost a further £3.50.

To begin, I had the fish soup (£6.95), which proved rich and flavoursome. The menu told me it came with rouille (of which there was none but aoli instead), garlic croutons (I detected no garlic) and Emmenthal (it was certainly not that more like grated mousetrap cheddar). The menu should have just said 'fish soup'. Why offer things if you can't deliver?

Rosemarie ate the very robust French onion soup (£4.95), which was much enjoyed, followed by the pan-fried salmon (£15) with "mint crushed potatoes" that had no taste of mint and an "orange butter sauce reduction" that had not been reduced but, on the contrary, was a runny liquid whose powerful citrussy flavour dominated everything.

Her mother, fortunately, was very happy (once the ordering disappointment receded) with the prettily served tian of crab (£7.95) with tomatoes, avocado and a horseradish and Worcester-sauce dressing, and pan-fried chicken breast (£17.50), with spinach, mashed potatoes, and a mushroom and Madeira jus.

We shared a portion of profiteroles with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, which we much enjoyed, and Bailey's's infused creme brulee. The latter was advertised to come with roasted coffee ice cream (which it did), almond tuile (of which there was none) and a chocolate cornflake biscuit (which appeared to have transformed itself into fudge). In compensation, perhaps, for these changes, there was an unadvertised bonus of blueberries. Both puds cost £5.50.

From a fairly priced wine list we enjoyed a French sauvignon blanc (Les Jamelles, £14.15). Its fresh, fragrant flavour was just what we expected one rare instance on this rather depressing evening of our hopes not being raised in vain.