Why is it that if you take someone else out to dinner, having raved about a place for months, it's never as good as you expect. For some reason this is exacerbated when parents are involved. You spend days racking your brains for somewhere appropriate to take them, and invariably it's a disappointment.

This has certainly been my experience in Oxford, regardless of how good the restaurants in question are. It's as if someone produces a megaphone, seconds before we walk in, asking the chefs and waiting staff to make the food as late, muddled and inedible as possible, before putting it down and beaming as we walk through the door.

Every time the parents phoned, suggesting a sojourn, I broke into a sweat, wondering what culinary disasters awaited us.

Unable to face yet another extortionate bill, sloppy service, food that left us reeling in hunger, cramped tables, meals frozen in the middle, or being charged £7 for half a lager, I phoned The White House.

In an ocean of touch-and-go eateries, The White House is the island in the middle. But what it doesn't do well is pomp and circumstance. A strange hybrid of pub and restaurant, this is unlike any gastro pub you've ever been to. While the latter concentrates on the decor, staff and atmosphere, the only emphasis at The White House is on the food, which it is the city's best kept secret, so you have to ignore the 80s look. And let's face it, the decor was the least of my worries.

And so we braved the Saturday night curse, sitting in the bar area, drinking a swift half, while we perused the menu. My mother started laughing at what appeared to be a stag party doing the can-can outside -- until they came in.

"Here we go," we thought, my father having already fended off one extremely amorous and friendly gentleman in the bar.

That's what happens when your restaurant is staggering distance from the station. They weren't on a stag do, it was visiting football fans, one of whom was at least 6ft 6in and 20 plus stone, and we waited for the inevitable fight.

But just as our hackles were rising, the situation subsided like a damp souffl. As the pub isn't exactly boisterous, and the clientele were chatting gently, the lads' exuberance was out of place, and they soon left.

Picking up the menus, all doubt evaporated. I have never had a bad meal here, have always been spoilt for choice and the service and ingredients revive your faith in food.

Not only is the menu extensive, but every entry leaves your mouth watering, and knowing that all the pasta is hand-made makes it even harder.

Half an hour later we were still pondering and ordered a selection of their gorgeous breads -- the coriander and walnut and a round of the rosemary and sun-dried tomato (£2.95 each), which comes toasted and dripping in olive oil.

I passed on the starters because I had prior knowledge up my sleeve -- the portions are enormous -- so I was able to share the home-made prawn cakes with sweet chilli and spring onion sauce (£5.95), and the wild mushroom ravioli, basil and tomato sauce (£5.75), which was enough for a main course, and both went down very well.

For the next round we sampled the grilled sirloin 8oz steak (£12.95) served with grilled tomato, mushrooms and chips, which was declared "very British", which apparently can be translated as "tasty but tough", the gorgonzola ravioli with a tomato and basil dressing (£9.95), and the gnocchi with tomato, basil and parmesan cheese (£9.95), both of which came with side salads.

If I have any criticisms, it's that while the ravioli might be home-made, there's so much of it, and it's so delicious you can't stop eating it. So by the time you're done, you've eaten yourself into a near catatonic state and have to be revived with strong black coffee and carried home.

There was no way we could sample the extensive dessert menu, the two bottles of white wine having slipped down alarmingly fast. Not wanting to push our luck, we called a taxi and snuck off before the fairy of fate noticed.

The White House, 2 Botley Road, Oxford. 01865 242823.