I HAD a meal this week with a woman so hot I almost didn’t want to touch her in case I spoilt her.

As we enjoyed our dishes I watched her beautiful animated features twinkle in the candlelight and reflected how important it is to pick the perfect restaurant for a first date.

At least now if she rejects me I will have the bitter comfort of knowing it is due to one of my glaring personal deficiencies as opposed to my poor choice of eatery.

This restaurant had delicious food, stylish décor and an alcohol licence – all ideal ingredients to turn a shaky maybe into an enthusiastic yes.

The only slight criticism I could make is the attractiveness of my date meant our table had a suspiciously attentive waiting staff.

Sadly, not all places have high standards – even if they have high prices.

One occasion springs to mind.

I had got to the restaurant 15 minutes early, more out of politeness to my date than to haggle over the price, but was pleased to get the awkward conversation regarding the discount voucher I was clutching out of the way before she turned up.

The waitress cheerfully confirmed the offer was running and my wallet and I breathed a sigh of relief.

However, half an hour later as we were choosing our starters, the manager came swaggering over and started quizzing me with the air of a man who is about to unmask an international scam artist.

His unbelievably poor level of customer service peaked when he claimed the company was no longer running the offer with a tone that seemed to say: “I’m sorry, peasant, we don’t do any meals for under a pound but you are welcome to rifle through our bins if you like.”

His snooty attitude was deflated slightly when we drew his attention to the sign on the wall advertising the offer.

He went away with a sulky look on his face and I resolved to tell everyone I know how bad it is and never go there again.

Thanks to my tendency to panic- book late in the day, I took the same poor girl to an even worse restaurant some months later.

I could see why the waiter had been confused by my desire to book ahead, as on arrival we were the only two people there.

He casually looked on as I moved an industrial fan out of the way to get to the window seat he had reserved for us.

Sadly, being in quite a shabby street, this prestige position only afforded us views of boarded-up shops and the occasional early evening drunk staggering past from the rowdy pub next door.

After loudly bragging they had 150 dishes on their menu they were unable to find the ingredients for my partner’s first choice and then got her second order wrong, slavering Thousand Island dressing over everything when she had specifically asked for this on the side.

She pleaded with me not to make a scene as she wiped her prawns clean on a lettuce leaf and I put in my third, and finally successful, request for water.

My starter of batter rings that had once been near calamari was little better, although both have to be considered a triumph compared to the next culinary atrocity that awaited us.

While my chilli was clearly made from frozen, cheap mince it was at least edible, although I questioned the need for an entire lemon carved into the shape of a swan as an obscure garnish.

However, the home-made burger was the worst meal I have ever had tasted anywhere.

A poorly made mix, more onion than beef, deep-fried to a cinder and served with canned soup masquerading as an a exotic sauce served in a overflowing dessert bowl with a handful of fried mushrooms lazily thrown in. Add a bowl of poorly cooked chips and you have something quite special.

Oddly, far from being ashamed of himself, the chef come bounding out of the kitchen with an Odie-like expression of glee as if expecting to find me on the phone recommending him to Raymond Blanc.

The old adage is true – you know a meal has been bad if your date gets a kebab on the way home.