Last week management and I decided that we had neglected visiting our favourite trattoria for quite a while and therefore set out for what we knew would be a satisfying meal. The restaurant in question was a quaint, family owned establishment that seemed to have been in its current location since Roman times.

Over the years we had got to know the chef, the owner and his wife as well as their children who had, by decree followed their elders into the business. This was a trattoria with very little pretentious décor. Childlike murals on the walls depicted scenes from Italy, showing Mt Vesuvius smoking in the background towering over the city of Napoli. Each of the twenty or so tables bedecked with the obligatory red and white chequered tablecloths on which stood the classic empty, wax - coated Chianti bottles each bearing a single candle.

The welcome was always warm, the service cheerful and the food, though not exactly Michelin rated, was homely and satisfying. In all the years we frequented this establishment we never came away disappointed.

Now, imagine our surprise as we arrived at the venue to see that the Italian flags that had adorned the front doors had been removed and everything inside was, what designers would refer to as 'minimalist'.

Gone were the tablecloths, replaced with impossibly crisp white linen, the murals painted over in eggshell white, subtle wall lighting, casting cleverly orchestrated shadows down the walls. We are met by the owner, resplendent in ostentatious attire favoured by over-the –top restaurants everywhere, black bow tie offset by an impossibly whiter than white starched shirt and the obligatory black trousers with knife-edged crease. If it were not for the bow tie he could have easily blended into the walls.

He bows deferentially as we enter and then refers to the book of reservations, perched like a Gutenberg Bible on a lectern resembling something straight out of a Gothic cathedral. He frowns with feigned alarm when our names do not catch his eye, but tells us that luckily, he has just had an extremely rare cancellation.  Touching the side of his nose he tells us in a conspiratorial whisper that we are incredibly fortunate as cancellations simply never occur and in future bookings should be made at least three weeks in advance.

Once at the table we are handed menus the size of a riot policeman's shield detailing a menu that seems to have been written by an obscure and long- forgotten poet, so flowery are the descriptions of each dish on offer.The wine when ordered arrives at the table in a decanter that resembles something acquired from a garage  sale from the palace of Versailles. With a theatrical flourish a navy sized tot is poured from the elongated spout into an oversized glass goblet that, if filled to the brim could easily double as a toddlers swimming pool.

The “sommelier” watches with disinterest, as we taste the offering, as he and we know we have ordered the cheapest bottle from their large and cripplingly expensive selection.

Bottles of Pellegrino are nonchalantly dispensed into large glasses that when sipped smashes against the palette,  as its temperature is slightly less than an arctic glacier. Then the ordeal of having to listen in terrified silence to the 'specials' of the day, delivered in rapid fire waiter speak, leaving us bewildered as to what the man actually said and too frightened to ask him to repeat.

The meals, when they arrive are a mystery. Mine resemble two small fat birds in a basket while my companion's pasta looks suspiciously like ...well pasta. Our waiter grasps a giant pepper dispenser, not unlike a magnificent phallus and scatters seeds over her food, a glutinous wheel of creamy something or other slightly singed at the edges. When it comes to dispensing my cracked pepper he reaches for a miniature version of the pepper grinder to perform the same task. I presume this is his way of showing his ‘manliness.’

The white noise of conversation from the other feeding humans drowns out our disappointment and we consume our mediocre offerings in silence.

Forgoing dessert we call for the bill which, when delivered, is presented with a flourish, encased in an embossed leather folder, almost like a book of the bill. The amount listed at the bottom is enough to cause us severe indigestion as it is slightly larger than the annual GDP of a small African country.

We leave, a lot poorer than when we arrived and still mildly peckish but saddened that our little Italian eatery is no longer, where food and camaraderie went hand in hand.

What a crying shame!