The Black Boys In Hurley Near Henley (from The Oxford Times)

The Black Boys Inn in Hurley styles itself "a corner of France in the English countryside". It could as well be called a chunk of Devon and Cornwall that has strayed to Berkshire. While the former appellation acknowledges this splendid restaurant's commitment to all that is best in France's traditional cuisine bourgeoise, the latter description is surely justified for a restaurant whose culinary success depends so much on the fishy products of the South West.

Salcombe crab, River Dart salmon, fillet of Devon coast halibut, Cornish sea bass and monkfish - what a roll-call of excellence, and all supplied daily (when possible) to the Black Boys' kitchen. It is the sort of fare I used to enjoy long ago on treasured visits to the South Hams. The names alone seen on the menu sent me back more than 30 years; I could almost taste the crab-sandwiches - and pints of Bass - at Berner's next to Salcombe harbour (which an internet search would suggest is now no more).

Rosemarie, too, was in nostalgic mode, recalling the Black Boys and its eye-catching sign as a landmark on her childhood journeys between her grandparents in the Midlands and her London home. These days, such traffic races along the M40, just as we did, as a means to reach the restaurant (one can't really call it a pub, though there is a small bar area) without tangling with the traffic troubles of Henley.

Our trip last Thursday lunchtime was our first to an establishment that is now making a determined bid for Michelin star status, having won the guide's coveted Bib Gourmand accolade for the third year running. Owner Adrian Bannister, who has an impeccable record as a chef and in hotel management, will not, I think, be denied the honour for long.

His head chef Simon Bonwick, whom I met in the kitchen with his deputy Marc Paley at the end of our superb lunch, is a man who exudes tremendous enthusiasm for his work. We found him midway through the preparation of one of the sort of robust classic dishes that typifies the now-rather-neglected cuisine bourgeoise style. Having boned a number of large ox tails, he had stuffed them with a paste of minced veal, wrapped them in caul and was about to give these giant 'sausages' many hours of slow cooking. He expected they would be on the menu in about a week's time. (That is, about now, folks - hurry, hurry, while stocks last!).

So what was on the menu for us? Tartare of blue fine tuna, with liquorice and saffron dressing, anyone? Or how about a starter of rillette of duck with sauce Gribiche (a variation of mayonnaise with hard-boiled egg). For main courses we might have fancied some of the fishy things already mentioned, or pot-roast squab with rowanberry sauce or braised duck leg.

For old-times's sake I started with the kiln-roast River Dart salmon, an impressive chunk (almost of main course dimension) served with a crunchy celeriac remoulade and an unadvertised, but very welcome, dozen-or-so crayfish tails.

Rosemarie enjoyed a beautifully presented Salcombe crab, the meat removed from the shell and fashioned into a tower, with the darker meat, puréed, at the top and a well-judged accompaniment of avocado mayonnaise. She continued with caramelised veal sweetbread, a classic of the cuisine bourgeoise style (in which offal looms large). It was big, juicy and tender, and came with a small cake of choucroute (sauerkraut) and grain mustard sauce.

Still in the mood for fish, I continued with the fillet of halibut, which was of very generous size and cooked to a perfect opalescent white. During our kitchen conflab, I asked Simon how such perfection was achieved. A spell in the frying pan, it seemed, followed by a visit to the grill, with some of the pan juices spooned into the flesh, and finally a rest period beneath hot lights while awaiting service.

To finish the meal, I sampled a plate of splendid cheeses, among them Reblochon, Eppoisses, Fourme d'Ambert and Brie de Nangis. Rosemarie fancied apple millefeuille, but this had to be for two. Instead, she had an apricot and marzipan fritter. Rather than the battered fruit she had been expecting, it turned out to be a tube of pastry filled with marzipan and pieces of apricot. It was the only slight disappointment of the meal.

But there was still something to smile about. Learning she had missed out on the apple tart, our neighbours at the next table insisted on giving her a slice of theirs. It seemed they were very regular visitors to the Black Boys. I quite see why.

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