I’m not a massive fan of Soho Farmhouse. It’s not a big secret. I get it, mind – the escapism, the privacy, the facilities, that golden dusting of fame that rubs off on all its members.

And it is impressive. You can swim in the infinity pool, watch films in velvet armchairs and row yourself across the lake. You can sit in its bar, ride its horses and have your breakfast served in your cabin by a milk float with its own kitchen.

What’s not to like then you might ask? Its exclusivity for one, the very mark most people revere, and the ‘creative’ membership requirement which seems to have slipped, most artists too poor presumably to afford the membership fees, meaning most of North Oxford has been able to fill the void.

Which means its members spend most of their time rubbernecking in case Adele has just walked in or Victoria Beckham is down for the weekend, and everyone stares at you just a little too long, looking remarkably disappointed if you didn’t appear in Hello! last month

All of that could be forgiven, of course, if the food was any good. It is good actually, that’s harsh, but no more than that, choosing, for some unfathomable reason to stick to middle of the road fodder, rather than pushing the boat out, choosing fun, trendy, plentiful food, rather than anything more memorable.

I almost respect them for it, because they stick to their guns, never wavering, despite the converted barn restaurant being so lofty and comfortable, the staff solicitous, and the earnest health conscious food always adhered too.

Which is why, when I ventured there last week, I was so surprised, because it has finally upped its game.

In fact, the menu was so appealing we each had to order several things and pretend we were sharing, rather than be outed as proper porkers who actually eat lunch rather than supping green juice while discussing the latest bikram yoga session.

We didn’t bother with the mains, it was too intimidating, instead ordering champagne (when in Rome, darlings and it was my birthday) and two of the smalls, not a new set of underwear but their description for a pre-starter.

The garden beetroot and yoghurt dip, with wood fired flat bread and dill (£5) was really good, not too overpowering, smooth and creamy, the bread hot, thin and crispy, the dill cutting through. And then the crispy stuffed Jerusalem artichokes with grilled leeks (£5) which were so good they were worth the membership fees alone. Just like the tiny baked potatoes my father used to make by hollowing out the insides and refilling them with the mash, butter, cheese and bacon bits and then putting them under the grill, these were as good – the grilled leeks providing a squeaky accent. Heavenly.

Then the pressed potato with spring onion and mustard crème fraîche (a whopping £9 for something the size of a Milky Bar), which was an actual starter this time, and basically a glorified hash brown. But, oh my, it was tasty, despite its ridiculously pretentious title; pressed potato indeed.

Deep fried, with softly grated potato and onion filling, the mustardy sauce was so good I could have ordered a plateful and then hidden on an artisan hay bale and scoffed the lot. Instead I had to share it, enormously reluctantly, and move onto the burrata, pear, walnut and land cress salad (£9), whose soft white bounce of cheese was offset by the slightly pickled pear slices and the caramelised walnuts.

We then agreed to dessert, much to our waiter’s surprise. Not many takers amongst the bircher muesli brigade. But who can resist a softly poached rhubarb on a buttermilk panna cotta with ginger? Not me, as you can see from the picture, and it was worth the shame. We also managed the £7 upside down pineapple cake with spiced rum caramel and clotted cream ice cream (in for a penny in for several pounds), and magnificent to boot.

A cup of Earl Grey (was he there?) tea to begin, coffee to finish and I was £45 down. But after food like that, wonderful company and a birthday to celebrate I cared not.

So don’t tell anyone, but the food has turned an Osborne & Little wallpapered corner, and now begs a visit.

If, that is, you can get in.