Even by the somnolent standards of the Shires, they knock things on the head very early at The Greedy Goose — should that be The Sleepy Goose? — at Chastleton, near Chipping Norton. Having noticed the appealing exterior of the place on a recent journey along the A44 to Longborough Festival Opera, I decided to book for dinner there last Wednesday. I suggested 8pm when I phoned — earlier than I usually approach the trough — in view of the 25-mile drive home. Could we make it 7.30pm? asked the pleasant sounding chap on the other end of the line who, sensing my hesitation, then offered 7.45pm. Done.

Obviously a busy night, I thought, with the need to maintain a manageable pace in the kitchen as the evening wore on. In fact, the evening didn’t really wear on much after our arrival. We were, I think, the last to eat, except possibly for a group braving the evening chill outside the front door. When a party of prospective diners arrived on spec just before 8.30pm, they were sent on their way with apologies. The place was fully booked, they were told. School holidays and all that. By then, perhaps a dozen customers remained in the 70-seat restaurant. Very odd.

But we judged our evening to have been a success. The pub — one of about a dozen, some in London, run by a company called Urban and Country Leisure — is most appealingly furnished and decorated in classic country style, with leather wing-back chairs and the like. The staff were very pleasant and unflinchingly attentive to our needs. The food, on the whole, was good: head chef Carl Walsh’s dishes used fresh seasonal ingredients in interesting combination. Drinks include two real ales (one of them Warwickshire-brewed Ubu, which led me to a tedious disquisition on the plays of Alfred Jarry at the bar), scrumpy cider for those heedless of brain cells, and a good range of wines — we drank an excellent oaky Aussie chardonnay from Thomas Mitchell.

To start the meal I chose a selection of bits and pieces from the wide range offered on what are here styled ‘grazing boards’ — readers will have encountered these, under different names, at other gastropubs, I am sure. There were half a dozen lean pork and thyme meatballs in tomato sauce, lots of crunchy whitebait with paprika (the star item), toasted rustic bread and rather disappointing pitted black olives — the cheap sort that come bottled in brine.

Though my first instinct was to go for lobster, crab and fine herb linguine for my main course, I decided even as I ordered to switch to the lower-cholesterol option of pan-fried fillet of seabass. This was a splendid piece of fish, perhaps a shade overcooked, served on a bed of exceptionally buttery puréed potatoes, with a peppery salad of soused mushrooms and fennel, and a maltaise sauce that seemed to me to contain little or none of the blood orange juice that distinguishes it from hollandaise. All of it was greatly enjoyed, but not quite so much as the superb fresh vegetable selection I ordered with it: buttery purple sprouting, steamed courgettes, fried baby sweetcorns.

The accompanying vegetables (leeks and cabbage, tarted up with bits of bacon) were also the big hit in Rosemarie’s main course of Cumberland sausages (these more than a shade overcooked but still juicy within) and creamy mashed potato. She had begun with a neat variation on a prawn cocktail, which also featured crayfish, mango, coriander and (unadvertised and in rather too great a quantity) pieces of red onion. To finish, she had a super egg custard tart, piled high with summer fruits, which she generously gave to me, while keeping the little pot of blueberry fool all to herself.

During my decaffeinated coffee, I discussed with staff the various activities at the pub, which include what sounds to be a super country fair coming up on August 29. After that, it was time for the bill — and home. Despite the drive we were still indoors well before 10pm. On another night I might have gone out for dinner. But we had already had it.