During my 36 years as an Oxfordshire resident, the name and fame of pugilist James Figg had until last month utterly passed me by. Perhaps, this is not surprising since his heyday in the ring was nearly 300 years ago. Between 1719-30 he was undisputed British champion prize-fighter, the Henry Cooper of his day. And his success reflected credit on Thame, where the early part of his life was spent.

It is fitting that Thame should now be marking this connection, in the renaming of a fine old town centre pub in his honour – especially since this is thought to have been where he once lived. The inn at that time was called The Greyhound, and no doubt would have seen regular demonstrations of his bare-knuckle prowess.

From 1832 (after a brief spell as The Chequers) the attractive bow-windowed Cornmarket property was known as The Abingdon Arms, reflecting the importance in the area of the Bertie family, Earls of Abingdon. It continued as this until the latter part of last year when it was bought by the Peach Pub Company, which runs The Thatch, a little way along the road (Lower High Street, as it is by then).

Though The Thatch’s boss, Frazer Sutherland, is overseeing its management, The James Figg is a distinctly less food orientated enterprise. In this sense, it breaks with the gourmet tradition Peach has established for itself in this area with The Fleece in Witney and The Fishes in North Hinksey (which is visited today by Helen on the opposite page).

Food is rather more in the ‘pub-grub’ style, to use that unappealing but easily understood epithet. This is not inappropriate, I suppose, in a place that is seeking to embrace the traditional with its range of real ales (including Wells Bombardier, Timothy Taylor Landlord Bitter and products of the Vale Brewery in Brill) and no-nonsense decor.

As Frazer explains: “I’ve long thought that what Thame needed was a simple, friendly pub with an enjoyable atmosphere where you could drop in for a drink or three, have a good night out with friends or family, and a quick bite to eat, too, if you wanted. That’s what we hope to achieve.”

Clearly, Peach is proving successful in this aim, but to my taste it might create an even more appealing place if it were to jettison a couple of daft gimmicks that seem more tacky than wacky. These are the numbered boxing gloves (see left) which, as with those irritating wooden spoons employed elsewhere, customers are invited to carry their table to indicate where food should be brought, and the replacement of paper napkins by kitchen rolls in wooden dispensers.

More choice on the menu would be welcome, too. Lunching there just after Christmas, Rosemarie, Olive and I were hard pushed to find very much we really wanted (and this wasn’t just because of jaded post-festive appetites). Over a glass of chenin blanc at our fireside table, I worked myself up to fancying the lamb curry but was dismayed to find when I came to order at the bar that it was off. I hastily plumped for scampi and chips before realising this was too much like the fresh plaice goujons I was having as a starter – archly called ‘Small Food’ here. ‘Big Food’ follows. Too twee for me, I fear.

In the end, in a reckless deviation from my generally healthy diet, I went for the slab of home-roast ham, with fried egg (actually eggs) and chips. This proved so delicious that I forgave myself the indulgence. The goujons, too, had been excellent, especially their crisp, peppery breadcrumb casing.

Rosemarie was delighted with her small-size chicken tarragon and mustard pie, which was more than her mum was with her large-size steak, onion and real ale pie – her main course – which she judged to contain rather less meat, three pieces to be exact.

Both were supplied by the local butcher Newitt’s (though from a separate catering operation, apparently, which means they can’t be bought from the nearby shop). I suggest that a more generous beef filling be demanded.

Olive very much liked her gravy, though. Having passed on a starter, she became our pudding taster of the day, and gave the thumbs up to a portion of treacle tart and cream. I was surprised that Rosemarie passed on the chocolate pot, but the first-class home-made burger with cheese and chips was quite enough for her after the pie.

I finished with an espresso which was brought to me in a cup without a saucer and without the offer of sugar or a spoon. Carelessness, or another novelty?

Finally, a word of warning for anybody contemplating driving to The James Figg. There is a rear car park, accessed through the arch you can see in the photograph above. But this is very narrow and, as I found, needs negotiating with great care.