It’s OK not to tell a restaurant that you are there to review it, isn’t it? Some people probably march in wearing blazers, shrieking things like, “Calm down, dear, I’m only Michael Winner”, but I’d prefer to be a gastronome Scarlet Pimpernel. “Who the hell was he?” I want them to ask. “We never even saw him, but he was so right.”

Alas, at Caldesi in Campagna, they might well remember me. They will certainly remember my friend, Sam, the proper journalist. It was Sam who decided to engage Giancarlo (the owner, no less) in, frankly, an ethically dubious chat. It was Sam who said: “You’re a bit empty, aren’t you? What’s that about?” while I blushed puce and tried to hide behind a breadstick.

Sam badly wanted to be in this review. It was obvious. When I told him I was checking out a newish restaurant in Bray, he pretended he had heard of it, and then made a big show of checking his diary. “I’m free,” he said, feigning caution, “on, uh, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. And, um, Friday. When shall we go?”

I told Sam that he was in, but that he might come across a bit needy. I was wrong. Needy would have been fine. Needy wouldn’t have said: “Yeah, but Giancarlo mate, what would be your perfect review?” and then feigned innocence when wine came through my nose. Apparently, Giancarlo’s perfect review would be the one that appeared recently in The Observer. Just so you know.

First, the basics. Campagna is a small town in Campania, Southern Italy. Try not to be confused by this, but Caldesi in Campagna isn’t in Campagna. It’s in Bray, which is a little bit outside London. Sometimes I think that most places are a little bit outside London, even though nobody from London, or from these places, ever thinks to tell you this. I remember arriving at Cambridge, from Edinburgh, and meeting all these people from places like Watford, Luton, Guildford and Maidenhead. I bought it. I genuinely thought we were geographically diverse. It was months before I realised that they were basically from London. Pretty much everybody is.

Bray, if you haven’t clicked yet, is the home of the Fat Duck and of the Waterside Inn, which between them make up two thirds of Britain’s three Michelin three-star restaurants. Heston Blumenthal, owner of the former, also has the Hinds Head just down the road. It must, thus, be a fairly daunting place to open a new restaurant. Giancarlo and Katie Caldesi already have a restaurant, a café and a cookery school in Marylebone and a series of cookery books. When Sam asked Giancarlo why he had come to Bray, he shrugged, gestured around the emptyish room, and said: “Because I am stupid.” Reading back, he said the same thing to the chap from The Observer, so I’m guessing he meant it.

When I go back to Bray, and I will, because apparently I virtually live there, I’ll go for lunch. There’s something a bit weird about getting there on a wet and windy night. Caldesi is pretty anonymous, except for the sign, and arriving there feels transgressive, almost, like you’ve ridden out of town on horseback to visit some secret and high-end house of hedonism. I kept waiting for wagons to rumble past and for fluttering torchlight. I should have worn a cravat and a triangular hat. That sort of thing.

Inside, you are at peace. They greet you at the door with twinkling eyes and tailored facial hair, and if they are fazed that you are clutching half a tube of Mini Eggs and a taxi receipt, they don’t let on. The walls are all muted greens and subtle motifs. Cosy tables and an extension out the back with a hint of conservatory. Even though it was pretty empty, and the staff largely male, that illicit vibe continued. Eventually I pinpointed this to the music, which was a soft, tumbling sort of proto-jazz, just on the edge of hearing. You know, the sort of music they’ll play in a Bond film to alert you to impending love action. They also play it in Lethal Weapon 4 when the old Chinese guy gives Danny Glover his watch, although I couldn’t tell you why.

Another good reason to go in the daytime is that you can eat from the startlingly reasonable lunch menu, which gives you three courses for £24.50. A la carte is a touch more pricey, but that’s between me and my expenses department. We also ordered a bottle of something Italian, about which Sam pretended to have a conversation with the waiter, which probably didn’t help. Stylistically speaking, I liked the menu. Everything was in Italian and English, but the English was sufficiently stylised that you won’t feel much of a stuttering prole if you have to use it. Veal parcel with porcini mushrooms sounds almost as elegant as vitello ai porcini. These things matter.

My porchetta casareccia, to start, was gorgeous and melted on to the tongue in the manner that good meat probably ought to. I often find that warm salads have a slight “Oops, this really shouldn’t have gone in the tumble dryer” edge to them, but not with this one. Porchetta, for you stuttering proles, is thinly sliced pig. Sam’s gnocchi, which I stole bites of, came with lamb and was probably a bit heavy for a starter. Mind you, that’s possibly his fault, because Caldesi also does it as a main. If you don’t know what gnocchi is, you really are on the wrong page. They sell it in Sainsbury’s.

The mains, I have to say, were less satisfying. I had the pan-fried calves liver, mainly because this is something I order a lot and I felt I could make a fair comparison. I’m afraid I found it a little bit sticky.

“Glutinous,” Sam corrected. “Not sticky. You have to say you found it glutinous.”

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