In a weekend of even more than usual self-indulgence on the nose-bagging front, I ate at three of my favourite Oxford restaurants on consecutive days. (Well, it’s surely a citizen’s duty to help spend us out of recession.) Since my intensive programme of scoffing meant I had neither the time nor inclination for a review visit proper, I thought I would focus on my trio of ‘old friends’ for this article. The fact that all three aquitted themselves with distinction influenced my decision.

Friday’s dinner was at a favourite pub of ours, The Fishes in North Hinksey. This is a pleasant stroll from home along Willow Walk, though the exercise was hardly enough to justify my order of a main course of a large T-bone steak. But the waitress spoke so warmly of it that I could not resist, especially when told it was the night’s only survivor. Simply grilled with lemon and seasoning, it was a joy. Aubrey Allen, judged the country’s best catering butcher, is a main supplier to owners Peach Pubs. It shows.

Rosemarie had beautifully fresh fried hake, a fish that used to be considered downmarket, until its reputation was enhanced (like that of pollack) by Rick Stein and others. Earlier, we’d shared starters from the sea with one of The Fishes’ classic deli boards featuring smoked salmon, sweet cure herrings, haddock dauphines and Cornish crab salad. Pudding was declined until we were talked into (that waitress again!) — a shared portion of chocolate and orange tart. We drank glasses of unoaked French chardonnay and rioja.

On Saturday we decided (with friends Paul and Drew) to dip out of St Patrick’s Night highjinks with a dinner Italian style at La Cucina in St Clements — though we were still serenaded with Seven Drunken Nights en route by green-hatted topers in The Half Moon. Inspired by his country’s defeat of Scotland in that afternoon’s Six Nations rugby, owner/chef Alberto Brunelli included us in the celebrations with a vertical tricolour fashioned from flat bread. Basil pesto gave us the green, rosemary and garlic the white (ish), and tomato paste with anchovies the red. Delicious — as were the plump shiny olives, both green and black.

Main course for me was a big chunk of pearly white halibut on a bed of green linguine, with baby tomatoes and Alberto’s home-made artichoke antipasti. Superb. Rosemarie and Drew both had chicken breast baked in parma ham (she with mashed potatoes, he with roasted vegeables), while Paul enjoyed a juicy lamb shank. Puddings were a classic tiramisu served in a coffee cup and lemon tart. We drank Pinot Bianco and Sangiovese. A super night.

Next day was Mothering Sunday with an obvious companion presented for our celebration lunch at Quod in the shape of Rosemarie’s mum, Olive. We had my favourite table by the front door, with a view across the High to the scaffolding-clad steeple of University Church (would that I could climb it!) and, closer at hand, of the umbrella stand (where I once spotted and reclaimed a brolly I had lost fully a year before, only to lose it again three days later).

For our starters we shared two dishes — the brasserie’s gorgeous crab mayonnaise, made with shellfish sent weekly from Jersey, and a mug of prawns in their shells with (readers please note) finger bowls containing hot water). I continued with a succulent chunk of poached salmon with hollandaise and purple sprouting (the vegetable glory of spring). My companions both had roast rump of beef — a plate-covering half-inch-thick slice, with Yorkshire pudding, roast spuds, carrots, purple sprouting, parsnips and cauliflower gratin. Rosemarie and I shared cheese (crumbly, caramel-tinged Isle of Mull cheddar and creamy brie de Melun), while Olive had an orange and almond sponge pudding. We drank La Bastille, red and white. Gluggable.