It was an indication of what living in London can do to the soul. My sister’s boyfriend got a job as general manager of a popular restaurant. It is a restaurant that is popular in terms of both culinary delivery and good old rubbernecking social buzz. Those are two things that rarely go together. Ever had a hoot at Ramsay’s Royal Hospital Road? Or an outstanding meal at Cipriani? Anyway, while kissing his cheek with apparent altruistic joy, inside I was thinking: “Goody – no problems getting a table there now.”

It’s sometimes hard to get a table in the country, too, but only at those home-counties places where townie weekenders go, because popular restaurants in proper country places are empty by the last sitting at 2.30pm. When we rocked up, late, for our 2.30pm table at the Chasers, in the tiddly village of Stokeinteignhead, the restaurant was empty. In this part of Devon, they like to sit down for Sunday lunch at 12.30pm; all the other customers had been and gone.

I was late because of a combination of events that included an argument, a surf and a 15-year-old hitchhiker called Alfie. My London chum was even later, because he’s such a pampered ponce that he can’t use a train timetable. As I hurtled down the A38, I got Alfie to call my mum and ask about the menu. Devon kitchens close on the dot. The place is closed on Mondays, so if I couldn’t review it today, I’d have to stay in Cowpatsville for a further 48 hours. This was an emergency. There were four of us eating, and a set menu with four options for each of three courses was £18.95. “That’s pretty good,” I said to Alfie. “Tell her to order one of everything – I’ll be there soon. Whatever happens, don’t let them close the kitchen.” It was all terribly unrelaxing.

When I finally arrived, having thrown Alfie from a moving Golf outside Newton Abbot station, my mum and stepdad were sitting there, drumming their fingers and rolling their eyes. Yet, after all that, the lovely waitress, Hayley, who turned out to be the wife of the chef, Darron Bunn, said: “Don’t worry – we’ll wait for your friend.” This was most un-Devon-like, especially as the Pampered Ponce didn’t arrive until 3.45pm. By then, twiddling a glass of Spanish rioja that tasted of buttery strawberries, I’d had a chance to take the place in, while picking at some homemade bread. This was good: warm, slightly sweet and bun-like, one plain white, another with toasted grains and black pepper.

We were sitting outside by a streak of a road, but in three hours, the only traffic we saw was two cars and a mini-tractor pulling a trailer full of grinning nippers. Inside, the decor was dark wood, white and that tasteful kind of buff beige. “The Windsor chairs aren’t terribly glamorous,” said the Pampered Ponce. But, as I chatted to Hayley later, she said that when they arrived, the place was called House of Prawns and had a vomit-inducing swirly pub carpet and microwaves the size of Madagascar. You can forgive someone an unglamorous chair if they have rid the world of a microwave joint called House of Prawns.

Service was charming. Prices were low. And the food? Well, the food, we all agreed, even the PP, was just lovely. Roasted-tomato soup with basil oil was deep and rich with flavour. A ham hock, potato and foie gras terrine was chunky and hearty, with just the right chewiness and texture. The Chasers fishcake, made with salmon and cod – which had been lightly salted to give it a tighter texture – was spot-on, and came with a perfectly poached, sunshine-yellow-yolked egg on top. “Suddenly, that five-hour train journey seems worthwhile,” the PP said.

Charles Campion, a man who knows more about food than anybody else I have met, told me about Bunn. The chef’s history takes in seven years with Marco Pierre White in London, then the Greyhound, in Hampshire – which, under his charge, became only the second gastropub in the country to gain a Michelin star. After that, he went to Orestone Manor, in Torquay, where he got another Michelin star.

Now he is here, doing three courses, made with impeccable ingredients, for £18.95. Bunn’s food is plain by cheffy standards – and far plainer than he is capable of – but, still, his margins must be microscopic. At the risk of sounding like a crashing snob, that is certainly down to the sort of clientele that, when told the place no longer serves steak in a Stilton sauce, marches out of the door in a huff, the sort of customer who says: “Oy, woiz moi roice gart cheeeese in urt?” Apparently, they rarely serve risotto these days.

Bunn isn’t a “great chef”, but he has fantastic instincts about correctness and his menus are uninterrupted by his ego. There are no great surprises, but everything is done beautifully, and, this being Devon, the portions are wildly generous. For the price of the sea bass at Kensington Place, you get an entire lunch at the Chasers, and the fish is of similar quality and cooked as nicely – better, in fact, as Bunn crisps up the skin a treat without causing any damage to the texture inside.

The sea bass is served on a bed of the lightest ratatouille and some basil gnocchi. Our other main dishes included a great piece of sirloin, a roast loin of pork that “the knife just glides through” and a piece of salmon cooked so that the outside was golden, caramelised and crispy, and the inside was still the right sort of pink, soft and sexy. Everything came with beautiful sauces and gravies. Nothing felt wrong. We sat trying to think of some grumbles. Mother and the Pampered Ponce didn’t like the knives.

Bunn took his pastry chef with him when he left Orestone Manor, and she’s no slouch, either. Everything was well judged and had a lightness of touch. A strawberry cheesecake had a soft texture, a bit of the mousse about it, which, after the previous two courses, was much needed. Honey panna cotta had a depth of flavour that showcased the quality and complexity of the honey used, and came with oodles of perfect little summer fruits, including some beautifully sweetened pieces of tiny rhubarb. Chocolate terrine came with marmalade ice cream and a little circle of Jaffa Cakey sponge.

I expect there are people around Torquay and Newton Abbot who mourn the passing of House of Prawns and are outraged by the thought of eating fish with a basil-flavoured potato dumpling rather than a steak smothered in Stilton sauce. I’m pretty sure Mr and Mrs Bunn are living some hard times right now; they have the job of convincing the people of Stokeinteignhead and the surrounding villages that eating a salad of crab and avocado with gazpacho sauce is a good idea. It makes you wonder if the locals actually deserve a place such as this – somewhere comparable to the neighbourhood restaurants of southern Europe that deliver, in a quiet, natural way, amazing food for a totally civilised price.

AA Gill is away

The Chasers: Stoke Road, Stokeinteignhead, Devon; 01626 873670 Tue-Sat: lunch, noon-2pm, dinner 7pm-9.30pm; Sun: lunch, noon-3pm

Five stars: Seventh Devon, Four stars: Devon's gate, Three stars: Stairway to Devon, Two stars: Devon and hell, One star: Devon knows I'm miserable now

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