There has been much written on this website about the value of location. Without a doubt, the experience of eating unprepossessing food is enhanced by a spectacular view. On sunny days on the Island, seafront eateries with impressive aspects such as the Spyglass and the Baywatch on the Beach are full to bursting as patrons take in glorious scenes of sun, sea and sailors.

In times past, the Battery Hotel, between Ryde and Seaview, bucked this enterprising trend. Despite its enviable situation on a popular seafront promenade, the pub seemed to understate to the point of neglect its location, location, location. A novelty concrete Captain Mainwaring and Dad's Army platoon in the garden did their best to lure in the punters... but it was all too little too late. The Battery closed, and its passing was hardly noted.

In 2008, The Battery emerged from its scaffolding cocoon as the latest of four different Island venues cleverly called The Boathouse. Hearing on these pages that this pub's new owners previously owned Shanklin's The Bank, Matt and Cat were keen to pay a visit...

Review continues:

Fillet of Island beef with mash

The tired old pub has been replaced by a breezy, sailing-themed up-market eating destination: perhaps, rather than the Ryde plebeians, the new place is intended for the 'down from London' golden folk in Seaview.

The makeover of the exterior of the venue has been carried out meticulously. The walls are painted a restful blue and some are even clad in nautical weatherboarding. The party-sized Captain's Room is a particularly fine piece of interior design; nautical heroes gaze down at the beautifully laid table from their gilded frames.

After getting their drinks at the bar (Matt was astonished to find that four pumps of real ale had been drunk dry!), your reviewers waited to be seated. And what a stroke of luck, the 'best table in the house' was free. Sure enough, the table's position did not disappoint, being adjacent to French doors which offered a clear view of the Solent and No Man's Land fort.

When it came to the prices, these were surely pushing at the upper end of the casual diner's budget. One fish dish was merely marked 'market price': presumably meaning that if you need to ask, you can't afford it. The starters ranged from mackerel fillet on toast with horseradish dressed salad (£4.50) to a purse-puckering £6.50 for seared sea scallops, pea cress salad, black pudding and pancetta. However, Matt and Cat were so stunned by this awesome venue that they were willing to give the Boathouse a good go. If they could deliver a meal as well as they could refurbish a pub then this just might be one of the finest eateries on the Island.

Butternut squash, red onion and crottin goats cheese tart (£12) or the char-grilled chicken breast tagliatelle (£13.50) would normally have caught Cat's eye, but tonight was fillet steak night. Cat managed to not bat an eyelid and requested the most expensive dish she had ever ordered: fillet of island beef, wild mushrooms, truffle mash and herb butter (£19.95). "Good choice", endorsed the waitress. Matt chose rib eye of Shorewell (sic) beef and mash (£14.95). Both elected to have the steak rare. On the menu, neither dish mentioned vegetables and, on enquiry, M and C discovered that there were none to be had.

The curiously spelt menus were taken away, and in a surprising lapse of service, the wine menu and glasses were left behind, cluttering the table throughout the meal. Matt and Cat decided that, as The Boathouse offered itself as an expensive upmarket sophisticated venue it would be judged as such. Small matters of etiquette that would be overlooked in your average pub might count against it here.

Tapping their toes along to the prehistoric soft-rock classic '(I've Been Through the Desert on) A Horse with No Name', Matt and Cat mused on their fellow patrons. Where had these people come from? Well-to-do, deck shoes, open-necked shirts... perhaps they were all visitors? Or maybe Islanders scrubbed up beyond recognition for a posh night out - even Cat had dragged a comb through her nest-like mane.

Ah, dinner. Big plates with small portions were delivered with a flourish. Whatever the views on quantity, the presentation of the food was very pleasing. Both Matt and Cat's plates had patties of mashed potato topped with the steaks which were in turn surmounted with warmed vine tomatoes. Both plates also had mushrooms - a single large flat mushroom for Matt, and wild mushrooms for Cat. A knob of speciality butter was to finish both dishes; Matt's had the surprisingly understated anchovy butter and Cat's herb butter must have melted for there was no sign of it.

Staff buzzed about the place with a deferential, even humble, attitude. Matt and Cat were visited by each and every one of them: there were three, one arriving before the first mouthfuls were even chewed. Yes, the meals were alright. Really they were. No, honestly, they were fine. Both steaks were a lot closer to medium than rare but, as they couldn't be sent back to be cooked less, both were eaten with good grace and much smacking of chops. Matt's was a splendidly tasty treat, seared but tender. A really well-presented reminder of why locally-sourced meat is worth the extra effort. The mash and tomatoes complemented the meat, and the dish worked extremely well. However, Matt was pretty hungry, and once he'd polished his plate, he wasn't entirely replete. At these prices it shouldn't be necessary to have a starter; perhaps it would have been appropriate to offer some complimentary rolls or olives beforehand?

Chocolate soup

Because Matt was still hungry, they decided to give the puddings a try. Cat's waistline protested as her brain yelled out for rhubarb and grenadine crumble and clotted cream. But it was the implausible-sounding chocolate soup which won the day. Proclaiming itself as valhrona (sic) chocolate soup with ginger ice cream and chocolate wafer, Cat had to ask the waiter what valhrona was. He hadn't a clue, and had to ask the chef. It turned out to be Valrhona - a brand of chocolate. The fact that the Boathouse hadn't even spelt the brand name right did little to dispel the suspicion that the menu was designed more to impress than to inform.

Matthew played safe with sticky toffee pudding, clotted cream and butterscotch; although there may have been a moment when his choice could have gone the way of white chocolate and raspberry panna cotta.

The puddings arrived without cutlery so, while it was being brought, Cat stared open-mouthed at the chocolate soup. The bowl contained a spectacular amount of incredible-smelling steaming liquid chocolate. It was certainly delicious but there was just so much of it. It was the sort of pudding a man would make for a woman. Women like shoes, George Clooney and chocolate, right? If women like chocolate, imagine how pleased they would be to have an entire chocolate fountain's worth in one bowl. A much smaller amount of the soup with some fresh strawberries or tiny sponge cakes would've been less intense; it was a week's worth of calories in one dish! Cat attempted to cleanse her palate with the ginger ice cream. Which turned out to be vanilla. There was no sign of the chocolate wafer either, which was probably for the best as Cat was well and truly sick of chocolate by now. There were three mandarin segments to take the edge off, but - horrors - they had somehow become contaminated with onion. A category error with the chopping boards in the kitchen presumably.

Matthew gamely offered some of his pudding. Cat took a spoonful, wondering what had happened to his promised clotted cream. From a great start, this was suddenly all going rather badly. Ironically, at the very moment they were required, the ever-present waiting staff had all cleared off. Eventually Cat managed to flag down a passing gauche young chap and made her complaint about the ice cream and the oniony mandarin. "I'll go and find out" he said, then disappeared into the kitchen for some time. What he had gone to discover was unclear but he came back and offered Cat a second portion of the chocolate soup. She declined. Nothing else was offered but, on request, The Boathouse took the cost of the dessert off the meal.

This was only the second time in 184 reviews that Matt and Cat have felt that their meals have failed to reach their expectations to such a degree that they complained on the spot (here's the first). At The Boathouse, although apologies were forthcoming and concessions allowed, Matt and Cat had the impression that the staff, though polite, didn't really know what to do about it.

There was then no offer of coffee, further drinks or the bill. Matt and Cat peered out of the window at the twinkling lights of Portsmouth until eventually they decided to find the till, pay and just leave.

The Boathouse is like the curate's egg - good in parts. The delightful interior and decent main course more than made up for the inexperienced staff and the mis-spellings on the menu. What appeared on the plates was never quite what was ordered, and eventually the accumulation of these minor hiccups did have an impact on the dining experience. But this place is only a few weeks open - perhaps it was all teething troubles?

As Matt and Cat left, they saw to their delight the Home Guard, still on duty in the garden with a new coat of paint. Although things hadn't gone quite according to plan, they distinctly heard the advice of Corporal Jones, "Don't panic!"