"Could I book a table for two at 8.15?” The answer from Rigoletto — the restaurant, not any person of that name — was instant, to the point, and funny. “Yes,” said the cheery chap at the other end of the line. “We need your money.”

I am unsure which of the waiters I had been talking to. A somewhat world-weary trio as old as, or perhaps even older than I, any one of them appeared capable of the drollery (just as they were equipped, through their experience, to supply the sort of assured, efficient service so often lacking these days).

Anyway, the truth of the remark could hardly be denied. Rigoletto clearly did need our cash. Had it not been for an animated party of eight, in thanks for whose existence I muttered quiet hallelujahs, Rosemarie and I would have been alone in the conservatory. Indeed, we’d have been alone in the restaurant, its two interior rooms being fully laid up but empty too.

A consequence of the recession? Of the country location — driving and all that? Of the day of the week — Thursday, when we’re now so weekend-focused? Of the time of year — the pregnant pause before the eruption of festive fun? All of these, I suppose. But I suspect the poor patronage arose as much from the growing distaste for the sort of old-style Italian restaurant that Rigoletto is?

I last reviewed it in 1998. It seems very little altered today. I see from our clippings that it differs little from how it had been in 1987 when the restaurant opened in succession to an establishment called Froggies. French-style? Fraid so. The subtlety of those times!

With some notable exceptions in this county, I happen to like old-style Italian restaurants, even if my doctor doesn’t. Cream, cheese, chocolate, cake — why do so many of the most enjoyable things in life begin with the letter ‘c’? To which can be added a few of the things I did not have at Rigoletto — Champagne, caviare, cocktails, cognac and chips (though I did have sauté potatoes).

The place offers a wide choice of Italian favourites. There are no pizzas, but plenty of antipasti, half a dozen pasta and rice dishes, 11 meat dishes, three built around fish and (that glorious relic of things past!) a sweet trolley laden with tempting home-made goodies, including caramelised oranges, profiteroles, chocolate fudge, panacotta and (of course) tiramisu.

There are also changing specials, three of which took our fancy, leaving only the fourth — mutton with anchovies — untried, though approving noises from a gentleman in the party opposite indicated that this was a winner, too.

To start, I had half a dozen ravioli with crabmeat filling which were served in a creamy sauce along with mussels, a few cockles and lots of fresh parsley. I thoroughly enjoyed the dish, which teamed very well with the Falanghina Sannio wine, an intensely appley white which I liked rather more than Rosemarie. Her starter hardly required any very subtle accompaniment, being baked scallops wrapped in robustly flavoured bacon.

She continued with what might be thought, from its name, to be the signature dish of the restaurant, vitello Rigoletto, plate-filling escallops of veal smothered in a rich hollandaise sauce and accompanied by chunks of ripe avocado. My choice was the daily special of halibut, which was offered either unadorned or meunière (fried in butter and served with lemon and parsley). I opted for the second, and was delighted by the two thick pieces of very fresh fish that were served. There were, in addition, boiled and sauté potatoes, tempura courgettes, and broccoli, mange tout and carrots.

The appearance of the sweet trolley for the party opposite led to our appraisal of its contents some time before it was our turn. Rosemarie went for a slice of a sort of sponge roly-poly, filled with strawberry jam and whipped cream and served with lots of pouring cream. She was kind enough to give me a taste, just as I let her help herself to my beautifully ripe chunk of dolcelatte.

I finished the meal with a cup of decaffeinated coffee, served with a litle dish of chocolate hazelnuts, some of which went home with me. Rosemarie left clutching a red rose, presented to her by a gallant waiter. This was an old-fashioned courtesy of which we thoroughly approved.