As some of my friends will doubtless tell you with a yawn, I am one of those sad old characters who remembers Browns from its earliest days.

The pulchritudinous waitresses, the 95p spaghetti meal that included both salad bowl (four varieties of dressing) and garlic bread, the teapot in which was craftily concealed wine for out-of-hours consumption — they have heard all the tired tales.

Chiefly what I recall from the 1970s was how large the place seemed, even though it was confined in those days to the space provided by a defunct garage. Now, as revealed by its address (5-11 Woodstock Road), it has expanded significantly in the direction of Somerville College. At the northern end of the premises is the bar — and a fine bar it is, perhaps the best in the city for buzz and atmosphere. Customers who would once have been obliged to queue outside can now wait here for a table.

We found ourselves in this position last Friday, the allocation of bookable tables having been exhausted by the time our four-strong party decided to eat there. Waiting became a pleasure as well as a necessity, even if my dry martini was neither as cold nor as strong (too much vermouth) as I would have wished and Tom’s Old Fashioned — a classic Kentucky whisky cocktail — offended against his traditionalist principles through being made with crushed ice rather than stirred cubes. Happily (phew!) Julie loved her Cherry Affair (rum, cherry brandy, champagne), and Rosemarie was OK about the bottle of Italian chardonnay that was soon to accompany us to our table.

We were placed near a bay window close to the front of the restaurant, looking out on the smokers who have now replaced the queuers in the street. Behind us — and mercifully some way off — were long tables of festive revellers doing what revellers do.

By accident rather than design, all of us chose to start with products of the sea. I had half a dozen deliciously fresh oysters, which naturally (being a member of the Tabasco Club) I enjoyed with that piquant sauce. (There were also lemon wedges and shallot vinegar.) Rosemarie liked her juicy and tender pan-seared scallops with pea risotto and Julie her retro treat of a prawn cocktail. Only Tom, with his mussels, was displeased, chuntering discontededly that the “cumin-scented crème fraîche broth” was no substitute for the shallots, herbs and wine of the classic moules marinière.

This was not to be his night, for his rack of lamb main course — one of the evening’s specials — seemed to him to be overcooked (certainly the individual little chops were far from pink). Disposing of the last of his gripes in this paragraph, he found the sticky toffee pudding that came next too much like a light sponge, though the toffee sauce was much enjoyed. So was the robust Chilean pinot noir, a real tooth-stainer of a wine.

I, too, ordered a main course special — a whopper of a trout, which was served in its entirety, baked and beautifully moist. I had side orders of creamed spinach and French beans, both of which tasted rather tired.

As so often on these outings, Rosemarie fulfilled the function of burger tester, reporting the example found here (with bacon, Emmental and seasoned chips) to be acceptable rather than exceptional.

Julie was delighted with her melt-in-the-mouth calf’s liver and bacon, and all that came with it. Rather a lot of things, in fact — artichoke-infused mash, buttered leeks, carrot crisps and sage jus.

All a long way from the old spag bol and salad bowl, I remarked in between mouthfuls of cheese (Stilton, goat’s and cheddar).