Well, almost two years to the day later, I am still just as tongue-tied.

As soon as my girlfriend and I opened the door to the dimly-lit bistro on Saturday evening, we were instantly reminded of why we loved it so much in the first place: it is at once wacky, unique, intimate and genuine.

The place is absolutely tiny, with just seven wooden tables in a room lit by candles and with walls covered in bohemian memorabilia not dissimilar to the world-famous Au Lapin Agile cabaret in Paris.

The main wall is covered floor-to-ceiling with alcohol bottles collected from around the world and the soundtrack is an unusual mix of everything from 1960s protest songs and soppy ballads to reggae tunes and old music-hall ditties.

The dining room is at once instantly recognisable, like a quintessentially Parisian bistro, and equally alien, with unusual touches like a straw hat-wearing skeleton sitting ominously on the end of the bar.

It's the sort of place where you would have expected James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway would have set the world to rights in a haze of smoke and gin in the 1920s.

Like the decor, the food too, is a smorgasbord of inspiration. From Spanish tapas and Mediterranean anti-pasta to Eastern European dishes and straight forward steaks.

We opted, like before, for the now famous all-inclusive menu, which basically means eccentric owner-come-chef Ian Boasman, who used to own Preston's iconic Bistro French, picks what you eat.

It has become tradition that the first course is always a platter of cured meats, smoked fish and other Mediterranean nibbles, served with basket of warm bread.

We washed it down with a bottle of ice cold rose before I opted for some more unusual offerings, like an Estonian lager called Vira and homemade Sangria with raspberries and zinfandel.

After the anti-pasta, we were served two tapas dishes. Instead of the usual Spanish-style dishes served at most tapas bars, the Vine Bar casts its culinary net further afield and we were served Creole prawns and Chinese chicken with spicy noodles.

Then, last but certainly not least, we were brought, of all things, fillet steak, mange tout, baby asparagus and mash.

Never before have I sampled French, Italian, British, Spanish, Chinese and New Orleans food in one sitting – but I wasn't about to complain!

Then, if the evening wasn't weird enough, at about 9.30pm the kitchen closed and our eccentric host started an impromptu music quiz.

Despite answering Gladys Knight and Roy Orbison to virtually every question, we managed joint second and won a bottle of champagne for our efforts.

Four hours, three courses, many rounds of booze and a music quiz later, we were finally done. And while it was definitely not cheap at £80 for the two of us – including a £40 bar bill – we'd had a wonderful night.

I think I said it in my last review: The Vine Bar isn't about the quality of the food, which is excellent, it is about the quality of the experience.

We arrived at 7.30pm and left sometime after 11.30pm and during that time not one table was turned over. At most restaurants you are ushered out of the door as soon as the last forkful leaves your mouth.

But here they want you to stay all night.

The place is as mad as a box of frogs and so is its patron. Its individual parts are no better or worse than any other local restaurant, but the sum total is altogether more special.

Early in the evening I commented to my girlfriend how the restaurant was made up of so many wonderful cultural reference points.

Her reply captured the essence of what I was trying to say far better than I could manage.

"You could be anywhere," she said, surveying the room. "France, Italy, Spain, even Russia or Poland. The only place you couldn't be is a couple of miles from home."

And you know what, she was right. The Vine Bar is a holiday for your senses and that's why it is still my favourite restaurant.