Jamie Oliver opened his first Jamie’s Italian restaurant in Oxford in the summer of 2008. Not surprisingly, in view of the name and excellent reputation of its charismatic owner, the place proved an instant hit.

I went twice in the first week of business, giving it the thumbs up (with some reservations on Rosemarie’s part) in this column.

Since then, Jamie’s Italians have opened in 15 other places, including Cambridge, Cardiff, Reading and, most recently, Nottingham. A 17th opens in Bristol in a few days. The pioneer branch has expanded significantly since the early days, taking in what had previously been a next-door record shop. But still the crowds queue outside — a function of the fact that, except for large parties, you can’t book.

In terms of customer comfort and buzz the bigger Jamie’s is a better Jamie’s. The redesign has eliminated what had previously seemed a couple of rather pokey hideaways. Now these are integrated into a more congenial whole.

I had my first experience of the enlarged premises during a top-class (and exceptionally good value) pre-Christmas dinner with a dozen friends when we were seated at a long table in the basement of the new bit.

At a Saturday night dinner two weeks ago, we were in the section above, which I liked even better, though its wide window looking out over the street proved a temptation for passers-by to gawp the other way. Its spacious, open feel was certainly a contrast to where we were initially seated, in a low-ceilinged, slightly claustrophobic area close to the kitchen. We asked to be moved owing to the racket being made (entirely understandably) by a partying group next to us. The staff, helpful over this as over everything else, were happy to oblige.

We had come hotfoot from a sensational performance at the Oxford Playhouse by Danish Dance Theatre. Seeing so many lithe, fit bodies ought, I suppose, to have discouraged the ingestion of foodstuffs inimical, in excess, to physical perfection. In fact, it seemed only to whet the appetite.

The queue at the door, which had been perhaps 50-strong as we walked towards the theatre, had by now reduced to fewer than ten. The doorman promised a wait of no more than five minutes. He was right. After a brief sojourn at the bar, enjoying the first taste of our wine, a refreshing blend of Trebbiano and Gargenega grapes from Veneta, we were shown to the first of our tables and shortly thereafter to our second.

Food quickly arrived, beginning with one of my firm favourites here — huge green olives from Puglia. Each was like a juicy piece of fruit, served on ice with sun-dried tomatoes, black olive tapenade and crispy Sardinian carta di musica (here styled ‘music bread’). I followed this with a pasta course, prawn ‘linguini’, featuring big garlicky peeled prawns, with tomatoes, chilli (a near-omnipresent ingredient here), rocket and fennel. The curious thing was the pasta, like no linguini I have previously encountered. Instead of the tongue-like ribbons implied by the name, this was thick and round, like spaghetti. I raised this with the waitress, an attractive Lithuanian called Vaida. She showed me that the pasta was slightly elliptical and insisted that it was proper linguini. I remain unconvinced.

Rosemarie, meanwhile, was busy with two items taken, like my olives, from the nibbles section of the menu. The marinated sardines came with garlic, lemon, parsley and chilli; the sweet mini-chilli peppers were stuffed with tuna, capers and anchovies.

She continued with what is styled ‘burger Italiano’. She found the meat ingredient — British-beef — excellent, but criticised all the things that came with it, including fontina cheese, salami, tomato salsa, dill pickles and (inevitably) chilli, for making the whole a somewhat lukewarm eating experience. She enjoyed the ‘posh chips’, though, with their Parmesan and truffle oil.

I, too, found the meat — in my case lamb chops — first-class. There were three of them, cut from a wide section of the rib, grilled to a perfect pinkness, with lots of lovely tasty fat (most of which I wisely declined to eat). They came on a big wooden board with artichoke and mint sauce, roasted nuts, fresh mint — and chilli.

The really odd thing, though, was my side order of ‘flash-cooked seasonal greens’ (with garlic and . . . I think you can guess). These turned out to be leeks which (while one might argue about pasta nomenclature) certainly cannot be called greens. They were also unpleasantly cool.

I passed on pud, while Rosemarie ate an example of the ‘ultimate chocolate, raspberry and Amaretto brownie’. She enjoyed it, but said it was much more like sponge than the crunchy, almost biscuit-like brownie she expected.