Any port in the stormy sea of customer care

Other diary columnists have mentioned the complaints they are occasionally faced with and how they cope with them.

In a complaint, you deal either with something that has gone wrong, in which case you apologise and try to make amends, or you have to deal with one of those bizarre people who rather enjoy causing a stir, in which case a much firmer response will be likely.

I find it is the grey issues such as smoking or dealing with people who have become very loud - perhaps swearing a lot or trying to conclude some deep-rooted domestic squabble - that cause more long-term difficulty.

Last night, for example, a party of four seemed suddenly to move into overdrive on the drinks.

After the customary quantity of moderately-priced wine, they decided to take more serious quantities on board.

"Good luck," I can hear you say, "nice to see people having a good time, like a glass myself sometimes."

Trouble was that having - eventually - paid up, one bright spark decided they all needed vintage port before going. The resulting additional bill for eight glasses of 1963 port came to an unpleasantly surprising £64.

I could picture the unfortunate man later in the street, whingeing about the cost and knew for sure he would tell all his chums how expensive our restaurant is and what a vast amount he was charged for a meal of lamb and hare.

He won't, of course, be saying what a fool he was for drinking gallons of Beaujolais on a fresh palate then wasting large sums on extravagant after-dinner drinks.

But he is over 21 and I would not make any extra friends were I to intervene whenever I felt people to be foolish.

The best we can do is to make our prices clear and not push either aperitifs or digestifs unduly.

Drunks and those who complain are in a minority but are still irritating.

They are all the same in that they wish me to go out into the restaurant to see them and listen while they list the expensive restaurants in which they have eaten. This is evidently perceived by these people as having some sort of kudos.

That they had once dined at the Waterside or the Manoir aux Quat'Saisons apparently proves that they are both affluent and connoisseurs.

Luckily I am a very polite chap and do my best not to look bored out of my mind by all this. It would, however, be much more impressive if they remembered what they ate at these august addresses and not just how large the bill was.

But our main dilemma is that most people around here smoke. This makes operating a no smoking policy in the dining room more exciting than it should be, for the choice is down to which group, smokers or non-smokers, to offend.

Smokers have become quite paranoid over the issue, and non-smokers now feel they have the right to demand abstinence from those around them. Early on, we decided to side with the righteous.

I don't smoke myself and haven't the cash for a truly effective extraction system. Our compromise is to allocate a drawing room for tobacco addicts to clog with smoke and, where possible, seat those who need regular nicotine nearby.

What the proper answer may be to these procedural difficulties, I do not know.

But I intend to plough on regardless in the hope that those with personal problems fight and drink at home, not in our restaurant, and those who cannot survive a course without a fag, cough themselves to death before their next visit.

And as for those shocked by their bill, I drank the remaining port myself and judged it worth every penny. But then I didn't pay for it.