Endless claret. The best food in Cambridge. The wonderful moment when the lights go out. Fellow diners old enough to have fagged for your grandfather at Eton. Myths abound, but to my surprise, the Adonians is a charming mixture of all these things (except for the food), marked by a particularly self-conscious awkwardness.
Before even heading towards the rather too liberal champagne pouring, layering up for the November night, my friend rang in a panic to tell me a button on the bottom of his shirt had fallen off, leaving what might be best described as easy access. An open invitation? Only time would tell.

Unfortunately, it soon became clear that my companion’s sartorial sense was indeed the vogue among well-dressed gentlemen folk, making my prophylactic winter wear positively anti-social. Panicking, I found myself draw a complete blank as to dinner etiquette. Luckily the conviviality of my dining fellows ensured that nothing ill came of my inability to unfold my napkin (it was kindly placed on my lap for me with soft, caring fingers), the loss of my wine glass (sending the already busy waiting staff to find you a new glass is acceptable, drinking champagne out of a tumbler is not), or determining which bun was mine to butter. The green light was on for affable monogendered dining.

The wine was bounteous and plentiful, impressing in me the importance of learning the correct protocol for drinking port, claret and dessert wine simultaneously.

While most courses were well-executed, I feel the pudding was too ambitious, being dominated by a misjudged explosion of vanilla sauce. Though on the face of it I’d usually agree the heavier the splash a stem ginger pudding gets the better, as any dessert chef will tell you, there’s only so much fudge you can pack into a sticky toffee pudding before its lapses into a somewhat regrettable oral experience.

Despite having enjoyed a splendid evening, by the end I was unfortunately still unable to say for sure what the Adonians are trying to do: a last hurrah to a better time, Cindies with better wine, or post-modern satirical meta-theatre about modern gender relations?

Alas I’m still in the dark.