I was delighted to be informed the other day by the newly-opened local brasserie at which we’d reserved a table that a party of 60 had also made a reservation on the same evening. Did we want to come earlier, or postpone? We postponed. Who, after all, wants to share their meal with a bunch of strangers noisily celebrating their own private party? Disappointment morphed into gratitude to the restaurant staff for showing us such understanding.

But then we wondered where else to go. In the modern restaurant scene, where pared-back brick walls, bare floorboards, metal shelving and crammed-together tables can make the experience of sampling chef’s thoughtfully-created menu a nightmare, the expression “I can’t hear myself think” could easily be translated into “I can’t hear myself taste” (after all, the sensory eating movement has long acknowledged that all five senses are engaged when we are confronted with food, and it’s been mooted that noise does affect flavour). For those restaurants that don’t have private dining rooms large enough for big parties, aural overload can too easily equate oral trauma. The trend for sharing plates, intended to encourage discussion between friends, only adds to the problem for some people; as do children.

In a bid to mitigate against this, a new movement is quietly taking hold in Spain and it’s sure to spread here any day now. It’s called Eating without Noise and is known as the quiet restaurant movement. Some 22 restaurants in Spain have already signed up.

Purists will say that the silent restaurant, with no aural distractions, helps you focus on the food before you and thus appreciate the appearance, depths of flavour, layers of texture and sheer skill that has been put into the dishes laid before you.

But I wonder: do we really want to go there?

I still shudder at the memory of a (very expensive and very delicious) birthday meal four of us had some years ago at Amaryllis, Gordon Ramsay’s Michelin-starred restaurant in Glasgow’s One Devonshire. The dining room was laid with thick pile cream carpets, padded pure linen tablecloths and heavy curtains. There was no background music, the waiters lined up against a wall facing us, and when serving whispered to us in perfect French as, in unison, they whisked off the silver cloches from our plates to reveal the treasures beneath. Although the food itself was beyond exquisite, we felt uncomfortable and on edge, convinced that to emit even the slightest involuntary giggle meant we were destined to be summonsed and sent home.

There’s a lot to be said for ambience, conviviality and encouraging a culture of being at ease around food. Lord knows Scotland needs this, but we have a long way to go before eating out is an experience available and accessible to all.

For this reason I sincerely hope the Silent Restaurant Movement is only having a “moment”, as reported last week, and that this dining fad fizzles out fast, for it smacks of elitism.

For me, total silence is as golden as over-torched crème brulee. Then again, a noisy lack of consideration for fellow diners is equally unpalatable. Surely, like the perfectly-balanced millefeuille, there must be a middle way.