Le Terrazze, Positano, Campania, Italy

Top notch food, great service, unintentionally amusing location, comic cast. What more could you want?

It is feasible, should one be inclined towards frugality in these times of crunching credit, to eat quite cheaply on the Amalfi coast. A plethora of willing pizzerias will serve takeaway tastiness to share at twelve euros or thereabouts. Prefer your carbs in a different format, and you can source almost-al dente pasta for a similar price. Or you might pop along to your local village shop, grab some bufala mozzarella, tomatoes, fresh basil, olive oil, bread and garlic and knock yourself up a feast fit for a king for a mere fiver a head.

Should your spending power be less defined by access to cheap debt than, say, a sizeable inheritance, or honest graft for a capitalist master, you might be less inclined to let the banks’ refusal to lend inhibit your patronisation of expensive restaurants. This is probably a fair assumption if you’re already on the Amalfi coast. Nonetheless, with an exchange rate more evil even than the Italian sun at noon, you might expect a little over and above decent scran for the princely sum of 150 Euros for two. Fortunately, at Le Terrazze in Positano, you get plenty of bang for your buck; some of it comical and unintentional, granted, but it’s good bang nonetheless.

It starts with a recommendation from your hotel receptionist. The receptionist is not to be trusted entirely. She is, for example, singularly unable to read a map or judge distance and time. Furthermore, your attempts to persuade her to book a table at a restaurant that she hasn’t personally recommended are met with a variety of obstructions, the most common of which is “closed for refurbishment”. Nonetheless, she looks like the kind of filly who’s been enticed out to the odd restaurant by would-be coverers, so the recommendation is tentatively accepted.

You’ve seen the restaurant before, of course, albeit from a distance. For an ancient stone tower that juts out from a steep cliff at the end of a long stretch of beach, with access untouched by the modern scourge of natural beauty (tarmac, children, do keep up), the place is curiously unpreposessing in appearance. The beach is entirely dominated by orange Day-glo sun loungers and screeching just-teens, and the building itself by a hideous glass frontage and a ghastly circular metal hand rail.

Despite the recommendation, this is clearly a tourist trap, and you decide to dress appropriately. £4 shorts from the George range at Asda should do the trick.

After idling along the beach gently for three minutes or so you reach the tower, climb some steps, and find yourself quite unexpectedly in some type of bizarre grotto. Hewn out of and bound by rock, with bits of lounging furniture scattered about amongst vases, spots of purple lighting, and an astonishing semi circular bar swathed in neon blue, it’s the kind of place that might make sense at 2am when you’re mashed off your tits. It palpably does not make sense when you’re hungry and looking for some bona fide Italian cooking. Fortunately a chap wearing white pajamas glides out of some hidden cranny and ushers you through Ali Baba’s cave into blazing sunlight and onto another set of steps that leads towards the restaurant entrance.

Pushing blindly through the door you now find yourself, startlingly, in an ostentatious 80’s music video. Stone walls. Soft lighting. White flowers. White grand piano. Cream drapes. Cream pillars. White and cream everything. You half expect David Brent to pop out and start singing “If You Don’t Know Me By Now”. Brent has clearly inspired the waiters’ choice of clothes; like the chap downstairs, they are all bathed in white pajamas, except for the head honcho, whose seniority is clearly marked through a lack of pajamas and an allowance of colour.

It aspires to an understated glamour but comes across as a sort of nouveau riche gaffe trying too hard to be chic. It is, however, undeniably expensively done and, let’s face it, it’s almost impossible, to English eyes, at least, for Italy not to do elegant. Suddenly, with your lobster face and your Asda attire, you feel a little out of place. You are an arse.

The waiter greeting us appeared momentarily discomfited by our less than elegant appearance but quickly recovered. Were you to appear similarly underdressed in many London establishments, you might at best be looked down on, and at worst unceremoniously turfed out. There was no superciliousness here, though. We were seated without reservation (and without a reservation), guided through the intricacies of the menu and looked after superbly throughout.

Ah. The menu. It read well. Well, Matina’s did anyway, since her version came without any indication of cost. At tables housing couples, the menu with prices is very much the province of the man. It is he who emits a little gasp at antipasti options averaging twenty five euros a head. We were reassured by a little sign declaring the restaurant to be Michelin recommended, so decided to stand firm and hold our ground with unwavering stiff upper lips rather than run back out through the door like big namby-pambies. We weren’t, at least, going to suffer food poisoning, even if our wallets were likely to be stripped bare. To be fair, the wine list was decent and more reasonably priced than anticipated. I think we ended up with a 2005 Avignonesi Nobile di Montepulciano; not an inspired choice, really – it could have done with another year or so.

Starters duly arrived, a mouthful was had, and suddenly all was right with the world. Matina’s choice looked essentially like a beautifully sculpted prawn sausage and was amongst the most divine things I’ve ever put in my mouth. No, scratch the “amongst”. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten and I have no other words to describe it. If I knew more about food, I might be able to tell you what was in it. My own plate was hardly outshone – the crumbliest, flakiest and tastiest fishcakes I’ve ever stuffed into my greedy face. All immaculately and unfussily presented. Food heaven.

Plates are whisked away, a seemly 12 or so minutes’ break between courses allowed for, and the main arrives. Portion sizes appear on the small side – I mean, do I cut the figure of a man on a diet? Feed me properly, please – but turn out to be perfectly judged. Matina’s spaghetti with shellfish is pronounced superb. My own controversial choice of pig wrapped in more bits of pig is exquisitely done; juicy, and full of varied but complementary pig-based flavours. The accompanying potatoes are welcome, if a little uninspiring. Still, every bride (particularly if she’s swine-like) should have as plain a bridesmaid as possible.

The desserts delivered too. Matina eschewed all non-chocolate options. I don’t care for them generally but I was more than impressed with my mouthful of dark chocolate fondant. “Rich, smooth, deep,” he mused, in homage to Masterchef’s Greg. Even more impressed was I with my citrus-based dish, which incorporated an other-worldly fluffy sponge and balanced acidity with sweetness absolutely perfectly. Goodness me.

In between oohing and aahing at the food, we were royally entertained by a diverse clientele. One chap arrived alongside a brunette in a dress as expensive as our garments were cheap. It quickly became apparent (to us, at least, since we discussed the whole affair at length) that the pair had not yet coupled, and she spent the entire meal with a ramrod straight back, coolly appraising her courtier with show-me-the-money eyes. Our man, who had announced himself upon arrival as Bogdanov, and who positively dripped wealth, spent the entire meal showing her the money. Whether or not she showed him anything afterwards is debatable – although her demeanour had softened by the time they left, we suspect that she probably intended to milk him for (and, indeed, only after) a weekend in Monte Carlo or similar.

It was notable and, perhaps, quite deliberate, that no menu was available outside the restaurant as it normally would be. There really is no telling until the very last moment that you’re entering an establishment of some quality, especially given its appearance from the outside. Perhaps they hope to trap tourists, unaware of the prices, through pure embarrassment. It didn’t seem to work, though. At least ten potential diners walked in, saw the menu, and about turned. One twosome had even been seated prior to scurrying away. Three girls left, two returning an hour later with the required funds, hair suspiciously dishevelled. The funniest deserters were the couple that only made it to the top of the stairs. The husband looked through the door and shook his head firmly. His wife clearly liked what she saw and pleaded imploringly to go in, but to no avail as her husband, replete with broom moustache, brusquely walked away. The poor woman wasn't even allowed to step through the door. No milking for him.

And so to the scores.

This was definitively one of the best restaurants we've ever visited. For Kai, it was probably the best. For Matina, though, it wasn't even the best restaurant visited that week... but that's another story. Until then, do as you have been. Tootle pip.