Bring to mind, if you will, the Archbishop of Canterbury's Special Envoy Terry Waite; Our Very Own Frankie Howerd; and Robert Thompson The Hambrough. Institutions that have all acquired titles with words inextricably linked together.

Sometimes food writers seem overly obsessed with who cooks their food. Matt and Cat usually don't feel the need to find out, but sometimes you just can't avoid it. The Hambrough in Ventnor has placed the famous chef's name above the title to create Robert Thompson The Hambrough. This has set the Isle of Wight a-twitter; with breathless tributes to this talented young man coming thick and fast. And it's far from empty hype: the Michelin judges awarded Thompson's restaurant a coveted star.

Matt and Cat could hardly miss out on this opportunity. Neither had eaten Michelin-starred food before, and they decided it was time to do so. So Matt had a shave, Cat put on a skirt and, having scraped a dead fly from the windscreen of the BMW, they made their way to Ventnor's Robert Thompson The Hambrough restaurant.

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Cat once went for an interview for a job at Liz Earle, a Ryde-based soap factory. The headquarters were very smart; all stripped wood floors and muted pastels. The Hambrough is similarly decorated in a corporate, clean and minimalist style. Like Liz Earle's, the hotel is situated in a smart Victorian seaside building, subtly and sympathetically restored - and maybe smelling slightly of heritage paint.

Entering the Hambrough felt like entering a church - a church dedicated to food. Like unaccustomed worshippers arriving on Christmas morning, Matt and Cat stood helplessly in the lobby until an immaculately-uniformed acolyte came forward to murmur a few words of welcome and take their coats. Matt and Cat gingerly took their seats in the restaurant. The sun had yet to set over the English Channel so your reviewers had a nice view of the tail end of the day, as they sat and waited for something to happen. Their table was bedecked with an impressive range of equipment; but there was a conspicuous absence of menus, drinks being offered and other regular restaurant activity. Perhaps this was a pause for awe? Looking for something to keep her occupied, Cat flipped her empty handmade glass plate. The reverse revealed the words 'Robert Thompson The Hambrough' and individual numbering (Cat's plate was number 50). Cat wondered if there was to be a raffle later - this plate could be her ticket to a fruit basket or flowery sponge bag.

When the appropriate amount of time had been spent admiring the table setting, Matt and Cat were offered the menu by another of the smooth but almost silent staff. Two courses for £38, three for £45 and a tasting menu for two for £80. Matt and Cat had done their homework; plenty of the dishes appeared on the the Hambrough's website sample menu.

Matt's choice was fillets of red mullet with seared scallops, Kalamata olive and smoked garlic sauce. Knowing enough to realise that he didn't know enough about wine, Matt was determined to get the full experience. So he asked for guidance from the somellier. To draw on such knowledge is a rare treat, and Matt was anticipating a bit of dialogue about this important decision. However, a single recommendation was given without any embellishment: Cooper's Creek Pinot noir. This proved to be excellent advice, and differed from what cautious Matt would have chosen. Still, your reviewers were beginning to understand that in the temple of Thompson, nothing was to disturb the atmosphere of reverent anticipation: and evening service was about to commence.

The waiting staff fetched the craziest-looking bread sticks ever. A towering brace of squid-ink-black brittle sticks were delivered in a glass, held in place by a handful of seeds. The salted sticks were at least a foot long and flat and wavy like starched ribbons; lumps of sea salt glistening up the shafts of the bread. They were like elongated pretzels; nice and licky. Matt and Cat daringly snapped their bread into their individually-numbered handmade glass plates and dabbed butter on the ends, sucking the sea salt lumps like cattle at a saltlick.

After the bread sticks came more bread. This time a basket of the kitchen's finest, warmed to perfection. Cat chose a white roll with elongated ends, like a mermaids purse but with only two tails. Eaten with the remains of the butter, it was delicious and had a great dual texture; the extremities were crunchy and the body nice and soft.

The glass plates were taken away after the second bread course and were soon replaced with tiny cups and saucers containing wild garlic soup, compliments of the chef. Little white flowers bobbed in the vivid green - a divine visual treat that also tasted rich, fresh, and subtly garlicky. Was this Isle of Wight ramsoms? It was not made clear, but it was certainly a delicious appetiser and boded well for the rest of the meal.

Usually at this point in a review, Matt and Cat will digress with tales of other diners' conversations or amusing observations about the decoration. However, at the Hambrough, there was little of either to remark upon. Although other supplicants were sitting at the nearby tables their conversation was in suitably muted tones, making Cat's covert photography probably a little obvious. The décor, although pleasant, was also a bit soulless. There was one picture on the wall - so far so minimalist - and a vast spray of synthetic orchids on the mantelpiece of the stone fireplace. The dining room, like every other aspect of the Hambrough, was merely the conduit for the revelation to come: the food. This was, after all, the reason people were there, wasn't it? The one concession to the populist eating experience was the oddly muffled warblings of Dido, whose aural wallpaper is as ubiquitous as Phil Collins for those wanting music to talk over.

Starters were next. Velouté of Jerusalem artichoke with truffle and Parmesan for Matt. The heirophant approached the table bearing a steaming jug of velouté. A dish appeared before Matt's nose with a handful of ingredients in the bottom, and the ritual pouring began. The staff withdrew and left Matt to contemplate what was before him. He dipped in his spoon, put it to his lips...

...had the Hambrough really been a church this would have been the moment the full peal of eight bells sounded forth. In one mouthful Matt was a convert to Thompsonism. The garlic soup had been impressive, but this was something else. Complex, earthy flavours of artichoke and truffle jostled to enrich the classically velvety sauce; and the nuggets and slices of crisper vegetable hidden within gave a combination of contrasting textures. Matt dug deep into the pale swirls, delighted. To crown it all, as the heat of the velouté began to sink into the Parmesan, the strong, acid taste of cheese gave an extraordinary finish to the little bowlful. Matt sat back, rapturous.

Starter was roasted cod with Romanesco cauliflower, Iberian ham and saffron sauce for The Cat. She was excited about the impending cauliflower. These fractal foods are fascinating structures to look at - and tasty too. Surprisingly, when her plate arrived, although the dish was well-presented, the Romanesco was not on show - perhaps it was mashed up to the point of invisibility. A shame, as it's such a visual treat. Nonetheless, the Iberian ham was delicious, nice and sweet. The vivid yellow saffron sauce almost made up for the lack of cauliflower but Cat felt that its unusual citrus flavour, for her, didn't quite match with that of the delicate cod.

Next up was the main course. Matthew's red mullet was perfectly complemented by his Pinot noir, and two generous fillets were decorated with a good handful of scallops. The smoked garlic sauce was subtle to the point of bashfulness, but with the seafood taking centre stage this was probably as it should have been.

Cat had black leg chicken with cannelloni beans, asparagus and stuffed morels. Unlike Matt's starter, which had been crafted with some kind of cheese and truffle alchemy, Cat's dish had no mystery - all the ingredients were immaculately laid out for inspection. A well-balanced pile of meat was delivered, woven together with sticks of white and green asparagus which were curiously sharpened at one end. Is there a culinary device for shaving the ends off asparagus? Maybe M & C should do some research in Hursts. The sublime morel, stuffed and halved, showed off its interesting texture. It was a really evocative ingredient, soft and subtle, its taste unmistakable yet indescribable.

In an effort to engage the efficient but at times inaudible staff, Cat asked about the origins of the morel. The waiter seemed stunned by this approach - so far the staff had all demonstrated a robot-like delivery of the food as follows: deliver plate; softly mutter a description; waft away. However, Cat was not to be put off by his coyness. Matt's attempts to banter with the wine waiter had fallen at the first fence; Cat would surely succeed where Matthew had failed. But no luck - on returning from a foray into the kitchen to enquire, the waiter's definitive but succinct answer was one word, "France". Although Matt and Cat like to feel that they are involved in the dining process, doubtless this abstract yet unflappable manner of service is just another carefully considered aspect of the Hambrough experience.

Still, it was notable that the waiter had to ask in the kitchen about the mushrooms - in a restaurant as obsessed with the quality and origins of food as the Hambrough, one might have expected the staff to have at hand every fact about these extraordinary creations. Another anomaly concerned the provenance of the food. The only local produce identified on the menu was Dunsbury lamb 'nicoise' and Ventnor stout ice cream. Maybe the other local items were just not labelled, as the website states, "the restaurant’s gourmet menus focus on using only the finest and freshest ingredients available daily from the market – where possible produced locally on the Isle of Wight." Local provenance is big business everywhere these days and M and C do like it to be made clear if their meal contains locally-sourced food or not.

One complaint that cannot be made of the Hambrough is about the size of the portions. Both picky Cat and greedy Matt were comfortably well fed, leaving just enough room to squeeze in one of the delicious-sounding puddings. In the interregnum between giving their order and the sweets being delivered, a further complimentary dish arrived. Unfortunately its name was lost in the mutterings of the waitress but it appeared to be a wonderfully sharp, fresh apple posset with a foamy, impossibly sweet sugar hat. Fantastic!

By this time, Cat really was full. So when her blackberry soufflé arrived she knew it would be a challenge to eat it all - a challenge she simply would not refuse. The eggy mound was being held up mostly with air and skill. A single blackberry had been artfully positioned at the apex of this inflated structure. Cat took great delight in watching the soufflé slowly sink as she poked in its innards to find the other blackberry. It was subtly flavoured; like the finest soufflé the experience was as much about the texture as the taste. The Ventnor stout ice cream was an excellent accompaniment.

Matt had a cylinder of white chocolate and passion fruit with tropical fruits, another architectural wonder. The sweet chocolate had been formed into a 'cooling tower' of fondant and passionflower jelly; tiny cubes of fruit were scattered about its base and a beautifully constructed spiral of chocolate completed the ensemble. M and C wondered how many chocolate strips ended up in the reject bin before a perfect one was coiled out.

Matt and Cat were stuffed. But there was no way they were going to fall at the final fence, so coffee and petits fours was ordered. The petits fours were tiny cornets of biscuit with fruit mousse, and a hazelnut truffle, all presented in curious steel holders like miniature candelabra. They were quite delicious, of course. M & C nibbled at the sweetmeats and supped their coffee - not certain whether they were sad to reach the end of this seemingly infallible series of delights or just relieved that they wouldn't have to squeeze in another morsel. As it was, they certainly found themselves more than satisfied with their first experience of Michelin-approved dining. They were looking forward to a refreshing stroll back to the car, gazing down across the twinkling lights of Ventnor Bay... but at this point the Teflon staff just seemed to be too smooth to offer the bill or make any further enquiry, and it was only when a lady came in and started laying the tables for breakfast that M & C managed to request the bill and make a dignified exit. Perhaps, as on arrival, it was expected that diners should pause after the experience to reflect and ponder.

So at last, making that slightly-delayed promenade back through the cool evening; M & C were able to consider what was one of the most memorable meals they had ever eaten. The Hambrough is an extraordinary place, and to dine there is an extraordinary experience. It isn't too hard to work out that in the Hambrough, apart from the celebrated chef himself, nothing is more important than the food. Everything else is designed to allow these remarkable creations to be appreciated.

The star of the show for this meal was Matt's velouté. Even Cat, who only got a mouthful, could only explain the splendour of this creation as 'alchemical'. The generous amuse-bouche courses were also both outstanding and clever - the wild garlic soup being a particularly apposite seasonal touch. M & C found the remote service style to be a little wearing, and ultimately, would have preferred a little more personal attention: but perhaps if they'd had it, they wouldn't have appreciated the food so.

And finally, the question that many of your reviewers' acquaintances have asked of the experience: was it worth £100? With the Hambrough undoubtedly close to the top of the Island eating out cost table, M & C knew what they were expecting to pay and saved up accordingly. But what else can this buy you? Tickets to a premiership football match? A night at a musical? A period return on Wightlink? Measured against those experiences, The Hambrough seems like outstanding value for money. Matt and Cat don't begrudge a penny of it, and nor should you. So start saving.

For Marjorie and Clement.

Visit the website: http://www.thehambrough.com/