For the second time in three weeks I found myself trying to make whoopee in an empty restaurant that was slowly closing around me at nine o’clock at night. The surprising — and disturbing — thing about my latest experience is that it was in Oxford city centre on a Saturday. And it was my birthday.

It is a moot point, possibly, whether The High Table, in the Eastgate Hotel, is actually in the city centre, although Magdalen College, which is even farther to the east, would doubtless consider itself to be so.

What is fairly clear, though, is that it is far enough away from Carfax to receive little in the way of passing trade, in pedestrian form at least. Since opening in December 2007 it has appeared, to my observation, to be no more popular than Merton’s, which preceded it on the premises, and the branch of Café Bohème there before that.

No matter. A number of reports had reached me that the food was good. I had always quite liked the decor. I would give it a try again and, if I enjoyed it, a favourable review might help to put a few bottoms on those perennially unoccupied seats.

To launch myself into celebratory mood suitable to the entering of my 60th year, I had planned to start with a cocktail in the The High Table’s attractive bar, off Merton Street. But it was empty and decidedly unconvivial. Instead, we went to the Grand Café, back along the High for a bracing Grand Margarita (me) and a Cosmopolitan (Rosemarie) — and a deal of joshing with the young staff.

It had doubtless been decreed on high that this was to be our ration of fun — beyond that derived from being in each other’s company — for the rest of the night. We found only two other customers at the restaurant, and when they left after half an hour or so we had the place to ourselves.

Plenty of opportunity to concentrate on the food, then. Our overall impression — one glaring exception apart — was that this was the product of a competent kitchen, though with no great imagination or refinement.

Mentioning what we didn’t eat, which I usually try to do, is problematic on this occasion since the online menu, which I intended to consult, bears no relation (I discover as I write) to the one we actually ordered from. So I shall confine myself to describing what we did eat.

Rosemarie started with one of the night’s two soups (I remember that the other was tomato and red pepper). This was crab and extremely good (I tried it, too). There was a bisque-like quality about it, suggesting the use of the crushed shells, cream and a suggestion of liquor in the background. I began with the night’s only special, potted salmon. This, too, was very good — a buttery mix of fresh and smoked fish in a ramekin topped off with lemony crème fraîche.

I continued with a pan-fried Brixham plaice, a beautiful fresh fish perfectly cooked. The advertised “citrus and herb” accompaniment turned out to be mainly a mixture of yellow and pink grapefruit. I had to scrape this off since the fruit doesn’t go well with one or two of the pills I take.

Rosemarie had a burger, which she thought only so-so, complaining that it had an odd grey, pre-cooked look about it. The pudding that followed was so bad that she complained to the waitress, calling it “disgusting”. Supposedly, a ‘chocolate brownie’, it was instead a triangle of what appeared to be brown rubber which leaked oil when pressed by a fork. It came with passable vanilla ice cream (could there be any other sort?) but none of the advertised white chocolate sauce. Very properly, the cost of this item was deducted from the bill.

By this time, about 9.40pm, the staff had long finished preparing all the tables for the next day, and we started to feel we were keeping them up. So off home for another early night. Actually, not quite. But that is another, not-to-be-told story . . .