What is it about Magdalen Road at the moment? Has it been touched with culinary fairy dust or is there something in the water? And while we know about the hares in this gastro race, The Magdalen Arms and the equally cheering Oxfork, The Rusty Bicycle is certainly the tortoise. Because while the former establishments win awards, eco-credentials and recognition by the barrowful, The Rusty Bicycle has been serving delicious food and first-class Arkell’s beer for several years now without calling any attention to itself, secure in the knowledge that its loyal and growing following are happy. And delighted by the way, to alert me to my ignorance and ensure I get a shufty on with a review.

The Rusty Bicycle used to be The Eagle, and having lived nearby as a student, I remember it as being synonymous with bar brawls, back in the day when hard drinking, smoking and wife beating (no letters please, it’s a joke) took precedence over food, and even the most hardened adventurer thought twice about venturing in.

So I wasn’t sure what to expect, considering it is also situated in this East Oxford mecca of spirituality, opposite The Magic Cafe and the Inner Bookshop. But as soon as you open the door you relax, because the calm, clean and welcoming interior is remarkably unthreatening, while being comforting enough to warm the hardened arteries of my heart.

And its unfussy, unassuming tone is reflected in the decor’s washed wooden interior, with tables and benches scattered with cushions, and a wood burning stove thrown in for good measure.

But the suspense was almost killing me. All this was well and good, but how was the food? Judging by the menu, fun and exciting, which was a good start. It took us ages to decide what to have because it all sounded so enticing and we both changed our orders twice. But Fraser, the gorgeous red-headed manager didn’t bat an eyelid as we ground our teeth trying to decide between the Rusty chicken pot noodle, the spiced lamb burger with tzatziki and hand-cut chips, or the grilled portabello mushroom and halloumi burger.

Eventually we settled for the chicken, mushroom and tarragon pie of the day (£9.50) and the Ploughman’s Board (£8) because it included a bit of everything including the soup of the day, without a mention of pickled onions and coleslaw.

And from the instant our food was put in front of us, we realised that this was no ordinary pub, such is the love, care and attention put into each morsel.

Take the ploughman’s, for example, which came on a rustic wooden board; the bread is home-made, the butter came pressed with fresh herbs and garlic. So easy, but a wonderful touch.

The soup, an unassuming sounding broth of squash, potato and leek, came instead with an Asian twist, using lemongrass and lime juice to season it, and had me in raptures. What else? The cheddar was Cerne Abbas, the pickle home-made and the little pot of roasted beetroots gave it all a seasonal touch.

My friend, who enjoyed her lunch so much that she returned the next day with her husband, loved her pie. It arrived on another manly wooden board with perfectly cooked sweet peas and some delicious thick-cut chips. The delicate, flaky pastry lid was seasoned with thyme and rosemary and the moist chicken and mushroom filling was cooked in a delicious creamy sauce.

For what it’s worth, next time around she tried the horrible sounding posh fishfinger wrap, which she said was absolutely delicious and definitely worth mentioning. The fish, three generous pieces of crispy breaded cod in a sea of peppery green salad with crunchy red sweet peppers, came folded in chobez flat bread with home-made tartare sauce (£7).

As for my £3 portion of cheesy chips (as Jim Carrey put it “because I gotta”) they would have been stunning on their own, but with the melted Cerne Abbas cheddar and a sprinkle of rosemary, their memory keeps me awake at night.

We succumbed (I like to use the word succumbed because it sounds as I am blameless) to the orange chocolate pot with Tia Maria cream (a ridiculously priced £3), between us and it blew me away. A tiny teacup of what tasted like melted chocolate orange, with a topping of boozy single cream was superb and again hugely memorable.

So there we have it. I have fallen hook, line and sinker for The Rusty Bicycle’s considerable charms, which means Magdalen Road is now awash with an embarrassment of riches, an abundance of fortune, an excess of eateries, and an overuse of phraseology. Enjoy.