After a weekend looking after the grandchildren I know how ScotRail trolley staff feel, constantly delivering beverages and snacks and dreading the moment when they must inform passengers they have run out of stock. Come Sunday evening, when we were once more on our own, the fridge was bare; heading out for dinner seemed the only option.

In all the years we have lived in the Borders, there’s one place we turn to again and again. I have tried to coax my husband to take a punt on other restaurants, but in this respect he reminds me of a Labrador I once saw being taken to the vet’s on Leith Walk. As soon as it clocked where they were heading, the dog sank onto its belly and had to be dragged by the collar along the pavement and over the door.

Since that’s not the mood conducive to a pleasant evening, on Sunday we went to our regular haunt. With French-style wallpaper, thick carpets and in winter a roaring log fire, it has the atmosphere of an 18th-century coaching inn.

As ever, it was perfect: a menu filled with things we wanted to eat, excellent wine, attentive and droll staff, and an ambience that never fails to lift the spirits.

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The place was buzzing with holiday-makers and locals celebrating special occasions. I call this our regular haunt but, like so many others, we’re not eating out as frequently as before.

One restaurant critic has estimated that the price of doing so has gone up in the past year by 15-20%, thanks to the soaring cost of energy, food, staff and rent, as well as the stratospheric rise in interest rates on loans.

Compared to pre-pandemic days, in fact, some calculate we are now paying roughly a third more for the pleasure of not cooking at home. To compensate for their extra expenditure, some chefs are using cheaper ingredients and reducing portions.

In the most pricey establishments, certain top-end menu options have been withdrawn – lobster is the obvious first casualty - because it would be impossible to charge enough to make a profit and retain custom.

That my husband’s dish included summer turnips, however, seemed not so much a signal that Therese Coffey’s dictum that we should focus less on food shortages and enjoy seasonal British fare had been pinned to the kitchen door, and more that it is a locally grown and delicious addition to any plate.

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It's at times like these I’m glad I have never been interested in haute cuisine. Even when lobsters and Dover sole were relatively affordable, the cost of deluxe dining has always seemed excessive and, in my case, a waste of culinary inventiveness.

When we go out, what we’re looking for is a reasonably-priced, not-too-experimental menu that piques the interest by offering dishes you would never make at home but does not require Google translate.

Rather than a test of vocabulary, eating out should be a chance to be pampered, and enjoy sitting talking, once the table has been cleared, rather than stacking the dishwasher and cleaning the hob.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s also like a fringe show. On a trip to the Peak District last month, we were given the last table in a Spanish tapas restaurant in a bijou historic town. The temperature was like Toledo in August and, despite a staff shortage, the place was humming.

Although part of our order never materialised, we were happy to soak up the mood, sipping rioja while watching tables being served by staff as fleet of foot as if they were dancing on a hot grill.

Our young waiter was bright and personable, with a quick wit. Necessarily so, because when the bill arrived we had been charged twice for certain plates, as well as for the food that had failed to appear.

Finally, after three amended bills – by now it was rivalling the King James Bible for revisions – the initially steep tally was reduced to a palatable sum.

What came as a surprise, however, was the automatic 20% service charge which, unusually, was not described as “discretionary”. On a more substantial dinner than ours, this would have been a considerable uptick.

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I’m all for tipping generously, but in the midst of a severe cost of living crisis it takes a bit of nerve to ask folk to fork out a non-negotiable gratuity that adds substantially to their outlay.

Better that, though, than the place we stayed for a couple of nights, where breakfast was inspired by post-war rationing. It was a case of the survival of the fastest. Get to the dining room later than eight and your chances of a slice of toast were slim. Butter portions were so meagre it could have been a health spa rather than a hotel.

Everyone understands the toll inflation is taking on businesses, but there is a distinction between thrift and meanness, and punters are quick to discern the difference.

Indeed, if there is one thing ballooning prices has achieved, it is to make all of conscious of value for money. Even if something is within your means, you still calculate whether it is worth what’s being charged, if you could find it cheaper elsewhere or forego it entirely.

Restaurants are in a tricky position, trying to entice customers with a price-list that won’t make them bolt while maintaining a sufficient margin to stay in business. It sounds like the sort of equation that would keep Pythagoras awake at night.

Nor is it a question only of cost. A large part of the enjoyment of dining out, for me at least, is the way you are treated, and the appeal of the surroundings. What you pay is a reflection of all these factors. So, when service is poor, or the establishment shabby, or the meal fails to reach the standard you expect, you naturally feel a little sour at being obliged to stump up.

In an Italian hill-town there is a waiter who understands that the end of meal is not a time to regret your evening out, but to finish it with a smile. “And now,” he always says, “for the good news!” before presenting the bill with a flourish.

And, for the most part, his diners go on their way rejoicing, feeling their money has been well spent.