Reputations, they say, are fiendishly hard to build but often destroyed in minutes. No matter how many customers are pleased or rave reviews published, the above maxim stalks those in the restaurant business with unrelenting vigour.

Restaurants survive on word of mouth and when the doubts creep in, or the inconsistencies become more commonplace, they face a stark problem.

Which brings me to the bizarrely average meal I had recently at the Half Moon in Cuxham — an unthinkable prospect just 12 months ago.

Riding high on the gastropub wave, the pub, near Watlington, established itself as one of the best in the county, serving a range of inspired dishes and winning myriad awards. Indeed, my first meal there last year was of such outstanding quality that I gabbled incessantly to anyone who would listen, urging them to book.

So it’s all the more disappointing that our experience earlier this month was so banal.

Nothing has changed within the pub, as far as I could tell. The ‘shabby-chic’ decor was as pretty as ever and the low buzz of chat contented and convivial. But the heart sank the moment we were handed the menus, which were almost identical to the ones we chose from at a meal two months previously. The choices looked fine, but July and September are very different months. For a pub that plays so heavily on seasonality, this was odd.

I began with chicken liver paté, an omnipresent pub dish verging on the clichéed, which varies so greatly wherever you go. Here the texture was remarkable — almost like a mousse — but the flavour insipid. Not unpleasant by any means, just pretty weak. The apple chutney that came with it did at least taste of something, although I’m not sure marmalade was the chef's intended target.

My brother’s tomato and bean soup — complete with mini bacon sandwich — was much better.

Like most people, I hate to be patronised when I eat out. Diners are no longer knuckle-dragging goons terrified by French poncery, and the majority of us boast a reasonable knowledge of food.

Showing daring defiance of the need for variety, we both chose minute steak, that French bistro classic. Alas, we were served what looked like one steak between us, with two halves apparently cut from the same whole, each weighing no more than 3oz.

The meat was fine, but the chips looked as if they had been retrieved from the bottom of the fryer. The puffball, that most pungent of fungi, was OK, but the bearnaise sauce too sharp.

Dessert saw the kitchen reclaim some brownie points. My bakewell tart was very good, as was Luke’s cheesecake. Coffee was strong and fresh.

Chef and owner Andrew Hill is obviously a talented and ambitious cook and there is every chance he may have been out of the kitchen that night.

The food was not awful by any means, but still fell way short of the very high standards set there over the past couple of years.

After so many good meals there I am more than willing — indeed, determined — to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Even so, I remain puzzled about how the standards have slipped so much.