There are times when you have to have pinch yourself and ask, 'What am I supposed to be doing here?' Now I don't mean that in some profound ontological sense - I'm not suggesting torturing yourself over the Meaning of Life with its concomitant angst and weltschmertz - no, I'm just saying that sometimes you have to run a quick reality check. Not a proposition from Wittgenstein, but a simple question like, 'What is a restaurant review supposed to be about?' I mean, can I make a serious appraisal of a restaurant on just one visit? What can I tell you that might be of use to you? How much of my opinion is made up of the mood I was in on the night? And on a universal scale of relevance does it matter one jot or tittle? Mostly these are imponderables, so with my customary intellectual indolence, I rarely address them. They are, in the immortal words of Zorba the Greek, 'questions without answers'.

There are some questions, however, that do have answers. Some questions don't elicit opinions, but simply facts. 'How much did it cost?' is one of them. I've got my bill, I've got my credit card receipt, I can answer that unhesitatingly. So that's one thing I can tell you about Wingfield's Bistro; it costs more than you'd expect. Partly that's because the word 'bistro' means something. It's not a word like 'love' that can mean just about anything to anyone, it's a specific word with specific connotations. It probably came into French from the Russian word 'bistro', which means fast. So there you have it; the original fast-food restaurant. Quick, simple and cheap. Finding the word in the name sets up a chain of pre-conceptions, all of which are displaced on entering Wingfield's.

Once you've discovered that the front door isn't the front door - we tugged rather hopelessly on the one next to the pavement - and find the door up an alley alongside the restaurant, you find yourself in a very pretty room. Pools of light play on the tables and floor, candles light sconces on the walls, there are candles on the linen- covered tables. Modern, brushed steel chairs with good quality cutlery and glassware give the room a classy feel. We were shown to a table by the window and on the way I managed to crash into a chair that unfortunately had someone sitting on it. I'm not normally clumsy, it's just that in the half-light manoeuvring between the closely- spaced tables isn't easy. The waiting staff have to be as nimble as mountain goats.

The lighting is really gentle. I was dining with Susan Morley, who hasn't accompanied me for a while, and she thought it was just fine. And it's great in many ways, but when you want to read the menu or wine list it's not so great. There was an uplight on the floor beside me and I discovered that by leaning over sharply to my left and holding the menu above my head I could get enough light on it to read it. I also found that when you lean sharply like that, the chairs topple over quite easily. In the space of a few moments in this restaurant I'd managed a passable impersonation of Monsieur Hulot.

Collecting my balance, my wits and my self-composure I began with the wine list. It's an average length list of forty or so wines, mostly in the affordable price range and mostly New World. Lots of wines for under £20 and with a reasonable mark up. Susie wanted a white wine so I concentrated on them. But this really wasn't my night for being clever. I'm squinting at the list and I see 'Domaine de la Bastide' Viognier at £16. Now I really like Viognier. It's one of the great whites of the Rhone Valley and at it's best it can be remarkable. So seeing it at £16 had me excited with the scent of a bargain. And a nice wine it was too, when it arrived. Well-balanced and good on the nose, just a little short on aftertaste. I peered at the label in the crepuscular light and couldn't read the small print. Holding a candle half an inch from the label gave me the answer. 'Vin de Pays Hauterives', it said in tiny gold letters - not from the Rhone at all. That'll teach me to read labels with more care before saying 'That'll do fine, thank you.'

The menu starts with a listing of the day's main course specials: a darne of salmon at £16, Dover sole at £20, John Dory at £18 and marinated lamb at £17. So before you turn the page you know the sort of prices you can expect. Six starters, which include the obligatory goats cheese and Caesar salad, are in the £6 - £8 range; then for main courses there was spiced fillet of beef, supreme of pheasant, sirloin steak, venison and chicken, which ranged from £14 to £18. But these prices don't include anything else - if you want a potato or a bit of greens then side orders are £2 a shot.

The starters came and Susie was enjoying her Thai crab rolls, which I tasted and found a bit of a jumble of flavours. Still, she was enjoying it and I said nothing. My terrine, however, was simply not good. It was dense and hard to cut, too cold, almost flavourless and the pine nuts that were buried within did nothing to improve it. I might have been looking gloomy, because Susie said, 'Wait for the main courses.' She was asking me how awkward her sole might be to eat on the bone when our charming young waiter came over and asked would she like it served off the bone, which she happily accepted.

Both of our main courses were good - a large sole for Susie and medallions of venison loin for me - but the fact is that they weren't quite as good as they should have been for the money. There's an element of hubris in this; charging top whack before earning your stripes. It can be done, but you can't afford to make a mistake or you have malcontent customers. Enniskerry really needs a good restaurant and in many ways Wingfield's Bistro fits that bill. The demand is there; I was told that on a Saturday night they do two sittings. At bistro prices I might well be happy with a quick meal, but at the upper end of the normal range I suspect I'd be resentful of my replacements. No desserts, and two coffees finished our meal bringing our bill to £68.45, not including service.