My girlfriend likes her food to be at one with her social conscience and has organised this expedition to Farringdon, London. The maitre d' takes our order in the (well-lit) bar, which amounts to having us pick which surprise menu we'd like and asking if we have any special dietary requirements. Our waiter's name is Ash, he has the gangly frame and lank hair of an awkward teenager, but holds his head up, his unseeing eyes staring straight ahead, as he organises those ready to enter into a human train which he leads through curtains and doors into the dining room, where there is not so much as a pinprick of light.

First, he reassures us that there are no steps in the room, as this is the first fear that strikes you, that at any second your foot could find an empty abyss where there should be floor. Ash takes my hand and puts it on the back of a chair, which I awkwardly lower myself into while he seats Herself opposite me.

In this temporary state of blindness your first instinct is to sit stock-still for fear of knocking over the crystal vase that may well be at your elbow. And so you don't move a muscle until Ash explains that the water glass is on your right, wine glass on your left and so forth.

There are a number of curious things about eating in the dark. For one, it's surprisingly difficult to identify food on taste alone. You discover that pouring wine by sound and touch is a tricky business. And you have no idea what your surroundings are: you could be in a giant ornate ballroom with chandeliers, or a small shed with chipboard walls. But you'll soon be very glad no one can see you, because table manners are quickly dispensed with; using cutlery is a virtual impossibility so you end up eating with your hands. After a short while you start to relax, but a quick reminder that you are outside your comfort zone is never far away. I make an attempt to rest my elbows on the table but clip the edge of my plate and almost catapult food into the ether. The whole room pauses and the plate's clatter is amplified in the dark to sound like a thunderclap. At least no one can see my red face. Or the food on me.

By the time you get outside, you're glad to be back in the light. Overall, the experience is more interesting than pleasurable; the food is average at best, a fact not helped by the reality that it's a chore to eat. I disappear to the bathroom to check myself for food, and when I return Herself is engaged in conversation with a man sitting patiently in the lounge. It turns out it's Ash's dad, arriving to collect him from work.

He explains how Ash only lost his sight two years ago and how it's been a difficult adjustment for the whole family. The books he's been reading say it takes four years for someone to adjust to losing their eyesight, and he mentions that landmark regularly like he's willing the day to come. He explains how he acts as his son's eyes on the street and how they don't even need to speak anymore, for instance he just gives a tiny pause to let Ash know when there is a step coming. Herself tells him that Ash performs the same role for customers at the restaurant and he smiles at that before admitting he's never eaten here, as his teenage son said he didn't want the family to turn up and embarrass him at work. At that, Ash appears, white stick in hand, and his dad nods a goodbye before they exit in silence. It may be messy, but there's still something illuminating about eating in the dark.

Dans le Noir, 30-31 Clerkenwell Green, London, EC1R 0DU.