Flying Fish Restaurant, The

Hampshire Harry (27 September 2008)

Excited by the menu, the delightful ocean-side location of the restaurant, and its reputation for a fine dining experience, we were eager to get seated and sample the delights of The Flying Fish. We were somewhat bemused therefore when we were not greeted at the door and in waiting endlessly to attract attention, had to endure the manager, barely three feet in front of us, venting his spleen to others and declaring that it was his restaurant and he could do what he liked with it. We crept around the apocalyptic gentleman and made our way into the dining room, where we were skilfully avoided by restaurant staff until eventually rescued by a waitress. The fact that our table booking was lost - not an unusual occurrence we were told by our host - and that a couple from overseas in front of us were unceremoniously turned away when a table was clearly available, the one we were eventually allocated to, the tone was set for the evening with disgruntled staff and a fractious and dispirited service. Our order was finally taken by a waitress that crept up from behind and in defying time and tradition, enquired ‘what do you want?’

Determined not to be put off by the challenges of our entrance and hopeful to overcome the initial failings in service, The Flying Fish tried to redeem itself with a special appetiser of garlic prawns, which sadly in our opinion, was again attempting to defy time, followed by a pan-fried fish-of-the-day plaice fillet, which must have been imperiously lucky to have survived the EC restrictions on catching undersized fish. By this time I'm afraid we were completely lost at sea, and joined the staff in mutiny, miss dessert, and slip overboard for the bill. I am sure we caught The Flying Fish on a day when it could not quite get off the ground, but the fact that after 30 minutes the bill had still not arrived and we had to go to the bar and pay, it kind of summed the evening up.