MARILYN Monroe's nipple loomed over us as we chowed down on two fabulous starters, and it prompted a mini-debate.

"It looks real," said Liz, between mouthfuls of potato wedge.

"It suits the picture. She's teasing you with the flag thing, and it's like she doesn't realise she's showing it."

The nipple in question was visible - alarmingly so - on one of the myriad monochrome portraits which line the ground floor of Plunkets, on High Petergate.

The photograph shows Marilyn draping herself in what looks like part of the Stars and Stripes, which isn't doing an awfully good job of hiding her assets.

"Nah. Fake. She never did that kind of thing," I insisted, sipping on a gloriously chilled glass of Budweiser Budvar, and clinging to my hopes that Marilyn was indeed the Girl Next Door.

"If you say so, dear," said Liz, meaning I had lost the argument.

That a restaurant can provoke such colourful conversation is testament to the genius of Plunkets decor.

It is an assault on the senses; wherever you look, there is something interesting to take in.

The menu, for instance. Quite apart from its mouth-watering odes to the food and drink on offer, it features two witty expositions of the restaurant's history, although some of it is questionable.

Do we really believe that is a youthful Mr Plunket on the restaurant's livery? And was he really dragged away from his toys to be painted, while his older brother hid under the bed? Whatever the kernels of truth, the story is marvellous humbug, the kind PT Barnum might sell you.

The walls are occupied by dozens of portraits of filmic and musical icons, in a manner which succeeds without looking tacky. The upstairs bar is largely devoted to the Rolling Stones, who rolled into Plunkets Way Back When.

And the walls seem to change every time you look at them. The dim, candlelit interior contrives to make them shift in dimension and depth; new nooks appear wherever you look, some of them illusions created by subtle mirrors. Or maybe that was the Budvar.

All of this sets the scene for simply outstanding food. Much of the menu is Tex-Mex, but, refreshingly, you won't see a single cactus logo or silly hat anywhere. Indeed, the ambience is more like a medieval tavern. It sounds like a mismatch; actually, it works perfectly.

My starter, an oven-baked quesillada of crumbled goat's cheese, roasted strips of bell peppers, chilli and onion, was divine, and good value at £4.85. The salad was a little uninspired, but that's a minor quibble.

Liz's potato wedges (£3.95), served with salad, melted cheddar and dollops of sour cream, were likewise a success, although the rather blackened outer edges took some hacking.

While I enjoyed my Budvar, Liz had ordered a glass of the genteel house white, which, I was told, "sank very nicely".

Main courses at Plunkets don't come small. Liz opted for the chicken and beef burritos, and they were ample enough, well worth £8.95.

She did complain that the salsa was a tad watery, but the beef was superb. A great introduction for a novice to Mexican fare, she said.

My own choice, La Fiesta Chimichanga (£9.45), was even bigger. Good lord, it was like a tank. It's a vast parcel of tortilla, in which sit mountains of ranchera chicken, baked chorizo, jalapenos, pinto frijoles and shredded cheddar, deep-fried hotter than Hades until the whole thing screams to be eaten.

Despite its size, La Chimichanga manages to be deliciously delicate. The spices are potent but not overbearing, the chicken is succulent, and the salsa and sour cream toppings give it a terrific hot-and-cold kick.

Liz, trying some, thought my tortilla tasted like a doughnut. I told her she had lost the argument.

Given this enormous expanse of food, it is a wonder they sell any desserts at all, but we managed to order some.

Liz chose the £3.95 chocolate fudge brownies, which she described as "squidgy, creamy and toe-curlingly good" while I opted for the orange meringue bombe with hot chocolate sauce, also £3.95.

I was presented with an Everest of cream and ice cream, drizzled in fresh orange cream and Cointreau, with shards of shattered meringue lying hidden beneath. And a very small spoon to make it last.

All the while, mein host loped about, genially making sure his clientele was well sated. I'm pretty sure they were, but I could be wrong; it could simply be that we were all too full to say anything.

Even Marilyn's nipple, and even our wedding arrangements, drifted out of conversation, as we waved a white flag at the sheer quantity of the food.

Plunkets needs to be tried to be believed. It's not just an eating experience, it's a treat for your senses.

Plunkets Restaurant, 9 High Petergate, York. Tel: 01904 637722.

Updated: 09:19 Saturday, March 16, 2002