The Vanilla Pod, Marlow

Richard Johnson thought he had found the perfect autumnal supper - until, that is, he sampled the braised rib of beef at a new eatery in the Thames Valley...

I still remember the guilt of the Student Union bar. The first pint ("Oh God, that could have been a pound of mince") was always the worst. The second ("Oh God, that could have been a ring binder") was only marginally better. It took six pints for the guilt to disappear altogether. Now that I've left university, and can buy all the mince and ring binders I'll ever need, drinking is a pleasure again.

Unless my niece Rebecca is around. She is a student, and likes to play drinking games. Even if I've ordered up a bottle of something halfway decent. Her favourite game involves a penalty for 1) holding the glass in your right hand, 2) pointing, and 3) saying the word "actually". I'm never very good, actually. And the evening always ends with her having to hail me a cab home.

But I was determined that our dinner at The Vanilla Pod in Marlow, Buckinghamshire, would be a more sober affair. So I invited my mother along. She has eaten at the finest restaurants in the Thames Valley – from The Waterside Inn to The Fat Duck – so she knows her way round. But she hadn't heard about The Vanilla Pod. Maybe she missed the review in the Bucks Free Press.

The small, half-timbered building looks cosy from the outside. But it's way too cosy on the inside. I was glad we didn't all have coats to take off – someone could have lost an eye. The dining room itself looks as if it's been built-on to and knocked-through over the years. Which has left it with a few too many walls. And you don't hide that fact by painting them orange.

I had to explain to Rebecca that a "Cement Mixer" was not, technically, an aperitif. The drink is Baileys, with lime juice floating on top. You don't stir – just toss it into your mouth and mix it with your tongue. The lime juice curdles the cream (like cement) and it becomes very difficult to swallow. It will pucker you up like a green persimmon. Ooogy wawa! I ordered her a gin and tonic instead.

The menu was infused with imagination. And vanilla. French chefs have been pairing it with lobster for years, but now they're adding it to everything from stir-fries to cassoulets. It's a flavour that must be handled with care – like the orchid itself. Vanilla comes from the pod. The flower is only available for pollination on one day a year. If it's not fertilized, it will blossom in the morning, wilt in the afternoon, and fall to the ground by nightfall.

Rebecca is vegetarian, and gave thanks for her tomato risotto with nut butter. It was made with a good quality stock. They say you can substitute wine, water or whatever, but it's a lie. I can't believe the excuses people come up with for not making their own stock – if they devoted that energy to making stock, it would be done by now. I don't mean to go on. To the casual observer, Rebecca's main course (boulangère potatoes with roasted vegetables) looked like a side order. Asparagus, spinach, carrots – "There's a whole greengrocer's under there," she said, "but somehow the sauce makes it into a main course." It went down well. Unlike the black bra that our waitress was wearing under her white blouse. Rebecca, you see, is a fashion student.

My mother was so caught up in the ecstasy of her roasted skate wing that I completely forgot about her. You see, I, too, was troubled by the black bra, but in a different way. So I distracted myself with a braised short rib of beef. The flavour was intensely autumnal. And its port and horse mushroom gravy demanded another round of warm walnut bread for mopping up. Anything less would have been disrespectful.

The whole menu was seasonal. My favourite autumnal supper used to be two baked mushrooms, their juices spooned over a thick round of sourdough toast – but this rib of beef would run it pretty close. And to accompany my favourite supper there will always be something in a glass, of course, but when isn't there? As long as it's not "Cement Mixer", I'm as happy as Larry.

Ditto, when I see parsnip on the menu. This underrated root vegetable has long been consigned to soup duty, where it has been the wind beneath the wings of its flashier cousin, the carrot. But The Vanilla Pod values the parsnip for itself. The candied parsnip truly flew higher than an eagle with the honey bavarois, raspberry salad and rosemary ice cream.

The saucing and style at The Vanilla Pod is very French. No surprise – chef Michael Macdonald used to work at La Tante Claire. But I also happen to know he did home economics at school, and made the third best scones in the county. It's given him the confidence to put olive oil and raisin coulis around his apple terrine. And parsnip under his bavarois. God bless home economics.

All the desserts were works of art – rather brash art, but art nonetheless. The pièces de résistance were the fruit jellies that came with coffee. You see, they have a special place in our family. We used to buy them for Nana at Christmas when her teeth couldn't handle chocolate brazils. And my father used to buy them for my mother when they were courting. It's almost as if the chef knew. But then, The Vanilla Pod is that kind of place.

The Vanilla Pod, 31 West Street, Marlow, Bucks (01628 898101)