Flying Fish is full to the brim. Its diners are louder than a Mambo shirt and from the outside looking in it seems like a restaurant on fire. But I’m not having the rollicking time afforded to those spending the big chips nearby.

After 14 years on Jones Bay Wharf, Flying Fish weighed anchor and punted on the ballast supplied by The Star casino. But the lure of Flying Fish wasn’t always its food. The perspectives of our glorious harbour and the heritage-listed structure set it apart from its contemporaries. Now it has lost some of its aura.

It’s all the more disappointing given the talent involved. Chef Peter Robertson has serious pedigree, with a CV that includes Rockpool and its siblings, no less. The service, however, is all at sea, the fitout feels like the fancy corner of an RSL and even the food is a case of hit then miss, and at these prices I don’t want long odds for a great meal.

Robertson can clearly cook, but I’m not convinced he’s found his mojo here yet. Take the seafood platter. Yellowfin tuna arrives lightly seared yet stone cold, suggesting it was done before service. Kingfish is sliced at the wrong angle, making it tougher than the creamy joy it should be, while scallops are also fridge cold. Blood warm, please, to release the oils. Southern calamari, nicely cooked just under as one expects, is overwhelmed by a bitterness in the squid-ink butter. We don’t finish it.

Whole barbecued John Dory ($58) is overcooked and dry, even though it’s still on the bone, and it, too, is overwhelmed – here by the rich pistou sauce. And yet barramundi is cooked beautifully – crisp skin, silky, pearlescent flesh – and it’s simply served with Savoy cabbage, yuzu oyster cream and chervil.

Robertson has the talent, but maybe, like the original, the food isn’t the main drawcard anyway. As it stands, it’s simply part of a night out at The Star.