One out of Three ain't bad

I'm in one of my self-help phases. Which is why The 22 Non-Negotiable Laws of Wellness by Greg Anderson is by my bedside. Greg says that when we blame, we give away our power. So who the hell do I shout at after my dismal food at the Three Choirs? I know what you're thinking – "Get on the maturity continuum, Richard." And I hear what you say. But you didn't taste that pork.

I had been looking forward to the Three Choirs. It's in the middle of a vineyard that produces some of my favourite English whites. As I snaked through the 75-acre Gloucestershire estate, the vines – thick, brawny ropes of brown – were lit by the weak evening sun. It felt as if I was returning to the source. But the quality of the light was the highlight of the evening. There was no graceful château to greet us – just a prefab – and a room full of staff that had waited on way too many coach trips.

Three Choirs has been a pioneering English wine producer since the early Seventies. It is clever enough to realise that tastes have moved on since Blue Nun. But so has interior design. New bricks are no longer an interesting architectural detail – and nor are stripped pine ceilings. And high-backed raffia chairs will always make me think of Emmanuelle. But that's my problem – not yours. All I'm saying is that, if I didn't know any better, I would have had Three Choirs down as a pastiche.

I remember from my childhood a cartoonist who drew women with their knockers out (they were, indeed, "knockers"), and men in hot pursuit. My favourite had a skiing theme, called, I've no doubt, On The Piste. Lots of confusion over men's ski poles etc. Three Choirs has its own version hanging on the wall; the women were fully clothed, but treading grapes (and, ha ha, spiders!) into containers labelled "three-star" and "lead-free". Not seemly in a restaurant that wants Michelin stars.

There were many different types of table – but only one type of cloth. In my eyes, heavy white cotton should heave down to the floor, not struggle to reach the edge of the table. I was getting "stingy", not "sumptuous". And I certainly didn't feel pampered. Every fixture and fitting had been bought with one eye on economy. Even the doors to the toilet were cheap. Only the view was charming – if you could look past the white plastic garden furniture.

The view reminded me of Falcon Crest, the soap opera filmed in California's Napa Valley. Just before I stopped watching the series, one of the characters added blindness to her staggering list of problems – she was already an alcoholic, on the run from a mental institution dressed as a nun. But before you criticise, just ask yourself, "How would I shape up if I had lived through a cabin fire and an earthquake?" Blindness was probably a blessing.

The soup of the day was thin and smooth enough to suck through a straw – so thin and smooth that I worried I had ordered from the Pensioners' Menu. It was followed by a grilled pork cutlet that could have killed an OAP, it needed so much chewing. I was left with a pork bolus to hide under my garnish. Neris' wild mushroom risotto with griddled asparagus and pecorino for £13.50 was a texture rather than a taste.

At least the wine was decent. You would need a whole weekend to try all the wines grown within 400 yards of the table. While I'm about it, do be careful of "British" wines – only drink English or Welsh. Wine labelled "British" is made from imported grape juice concentrate. Three Choirs are classier than that, but they do make wine for other people. Like Manchester United. But why advertise the fact by displaying all the bottles?

The desserts were marginally better – the work of a different chef, I was told. Elderflower brulée was delicate – too delicate actually. It didn't taste of elderflower. To be fair, maybe the pork bolus had affected my taste buds. The rhubarb sponge, with its right mix of sharp and sweet, was the only dish on the menu that didn't disappoint. We finished our wine (served in an Original Suffolk Wine Cooler – back to the pastiche theory) and left.

On the way home, I stopped off at the nearby Three Crowns Inn for something proper to eat. I wasn't going to be put off by a menu set in a typeface that I hadn't seen since the days of Pan's People – but a place that serves ham knuckle terrine with pease pudding isn't bothered by typefaces. It serves the sort of food that will always make my mouth water. Grilled Berkshire pork chop and confit belly with a cassoulette of morteau sausage? And not so much as a mini bolus to hide under the garnish.

At The Three Crowns, they grow rare varieties of fruit and vegetables – like the marrowfat peas found in Tutankhamun's tomb. Everything on the menu is produced with love, down to the Little Hereford unpasteurised cheese. Because of the changing nature of pasture, its flavour changes with the seasons. I'm not really blaming the Three Choirs (because when we blame, we give away our power), but it was bland. One of my new Laws of Wellness will be to eat at The Three Crowns. E

The Three Crowns Inn, Ullingswick, Herefordshire (01432 820279). Three Choirs Vineyard, Newent, Gloucestershire (01531 890223). To contact Richard Johnson, visit www.rjsj.demon.co.uk.