Amazing what a new car does for you. Suddenly long drives become an excitement rather than a drudgery, even changing gear becomes a means for becoming at one with the car and the road, instead of just a repetitive chore. Me for the open road, I thought, the wide empty spaces, the streak of black tarmac winding between green hedges, oh yes, the purr of a happy engine, the gentle whisper of the passing breezes. Motoring is fun again. I needed to share this new-found enthusiasm with someone and it fell to my friend John Boorman to be my passenger guinea pig. He was just back from London, where he'd been made a fellow of BAFTA for his lifetime of contribution to the film industry. 'Where are we going?' he reasonably asked, no doubt expecting an eatery somewhere nearby. 'Gorey,' I said, 'we'll be there in no time.' 'Gorey?' said John, 'now you're putting a strain on our friendship.'

We were heading for Pooles, which is in Gorey's main street. Once Gorey was a far away place, reached only during drives to the ferry in Rosslare, but now our new N11 makes the trip a cinch. It's a puzzle though; on the narrow, winding rural roads near me you can legally drive at 50 mph, but on the new stretch of motorway the speed limit has been set at 40 mph. Now that's bizarre. Still, we arrived in Gorey quickly enough and walked into Pooles. It's a pub, but it's one of those recently refurbished places that makes a virtue of the vernacular of another day. There are lots of shelves covered in books, copper things, stone ginger bottles, a Victorian doll's pram, finger posts, old cast-iron signs, ceramic hot water bottles and all the assorted bric-a-brac that comes with this particular style. It was warm, cosy, and a very welcome refuge from the biting wind outside.

The restaurant is right at the back of a big premises and as we entered, I thought for a moment that we'd stumbled into secret meeting of the Soropterists. There wasn't a man in sight, even the waiting staff was female. We took our table and wondered about this. 'Where are the men?' was the unspoken question, one that students of Ireland's new demographics might one day explore. The menu is of the classic bar food variety - it's broken down into snacks, sandwiches, finger food and more substantial dishes. The wine list is short enough - maybe a dozen wines - but the mark-up is very modest. I chose a Wolf Blass President's Selection Cabernet Sauvignon, which was listed at €26.75. This rich, jammy red brought a hint of summer fruits to the cold night.

The starters were good - a vegetable soup for John and crab claws for me, which were pan-fried and came with a creamy sauce that was good enough to mop up with my bread. The breads and a jug of water came with the starters and we tucked in, the cosy atmosphere and the warming soup meant that John began to forgive me for having brought him so far to eat. When they came, the main courses weren't quite as successful as the starters - John found his fish hard work, but my main course of an Asian-style sweet and sour pork on a bed of vegetables and bean sprouts was acceptable enough. The desserts were definitely back to the same standard as the starters, although John's cheesecake was a much finer dish than my mini chocolate pudding.

Throughout the meal the service was quick and attentive, making the meal here a pleasant experience. Good, too, were the prices - the bill came to €72.45, which meant the food had cost well under €50 for the two of us. You may be wondering what John's opinion of our meal was, so I'm turning the column over to him now and he can tell you himself.

"I accompanied my friend Paolo out into the cold night on his latest indefatigable search for the perfect meal. I had my doubts that he would find it in Gorey, but he is ever hopeful. I remember a hungry night in that town thirty years ago searching for a pub that stocked a packet of crisps. Now there are a dozen places to eat, Paolo tells me.

I thought we were heading for Marlfield House, but he told me that that fine hostelry was still closed for the winter. He led me to Poole's, a pub on the main street and to their restaurant where three other tables were occupied, all by women. One group of seven worked at the travel agent - seven! Clearly the people of Gorey like to get away. The charming Polish waitress took our order, the vegetable soup was encouraging. It had depth and no tinny or packety aftertaste. Sadly the vegetables with the main course had clearly been rescued on their way to the next batch of soup.

I took the fish of the day, breaded hake. 'Breaded' turned out to be a kind of armour plate which, when cracked open, concealed the fish of the day, but which day? Risking all, I ordered the passion fruit cheese cake. It was so wondrous it brought tears to my eyes: the soft texture, the tartness of the fruit, it was the cheesecake that thought it was a soufflé.

As they left, the women gathered around Paolo, fans of his column every one. It seemed we had accidentally hit upon the Gourmettes of Gorey. I enjoyed the reflected glory of dining with one so famous."

Thanks, John, couldn't have said it better myself.