'Long renowned as a place to enjoy fine food and wine in a tranquil and beautiful location, and also to spend lazy hours on the river with one of our traditional hand-crafted boats'.

Undoubtedly, I've trampled on copyright rules by quoting from the Cherwell Boathouse's snooty- looking website. It's a venue that appears to have it all - if you're prepared to push the boat out, ha ha. I'd picked the restaurant when my parents and sister made another of their visits to the Oxford.

On a previous occasion, I'd enjoyed a lunch at the Boathouse that was a few quid more than I'd regard as the norm, but which had left me feeling rather pampered.

We arrived for a set-menu (£21.50 a head) Sunday lunch in a downpour, having parked in a nearby road, as direct access is limited for drivers. No music was playing as we were greeted warmly and guided to a table by a bay window. As now appears obligatory whenever I eat out, the diners nearby were celebrating birthday parties.

SO WHAT DID YOU ORDER?

First, a bottle of the house white, a citrussy French sauvignon blanc. This was good value at £12 - and served, elegantly and efficiently, in an ice bucket.

For starters, I gambled on the salt beef and cheese, my dad asked for salmon, and my mum and sister ordered pumpkin soup. Our main meals were veggie lasagne for dad, steak and kidney pud for mum, and smoked sea bass for my sister and me.

We needed little cajoling when ordering desserts from the appetite-whetting selection: chocolate fondants all round, except for dad, who asked for cherry pie.

WHAT DID YOU THINK?

Underwhelming. The Boathouse has a strong reputation, being championed by our sister paper, The Oxford Times, but I felt I'd made the wrong choice. All the food arrived swiftly (except the fondants, which the menu warned needed preparation), and it was neatly presented.

The starters were pretty good, especially the thick, rich and tangy soup. But I felt uncomfortable on seeing my mum tuck into a steak and kidney pud the size of a pork pie, served with nothing but a dollop of celeriac mash. I was then downright embarrassed when she muttered that while the pastry was wonderful, the meat was chewy - but we said nothing, in true British fashion.

My dad's lasagne was also 'petite', although he described it as tasty. I was relieved to have picked the sea bass fillet, which oozed the aroma of woodsmoke without the mild flesh being overpowered. My green beans were crunchy, but with too much salt.

DID THE PUDS SAVE THE DAY?

Oh, the fondants were well worth the wait. They gushed molten dark and white chocolate that (we were pleased to note) had not fully mixed. The banana ice cream that accompanied them merited the term 'excellent'.

Dad's cherry pie bulged with fruit, though he found the custard ice cream with it on the bland side.

We rounded off with some drinks that, like the wine, were cheaper than we'd expected.

VERDICT: Unless minimalism's your thing, moor your punt elsewhere (like the Victoria Arms, further upriver).