I'm rarely at a loss when it comes to restaurants, but the new address from the Kolkovna Group has me stumped. Called Kampa Fish, it brings the operator of good upscale pubs into the land of four-figure mains, right there on the river not far from another place whose name also starts with Kampa. If I'm sure of nothing else, I can say that no one who's been to both will mix them up.

In fact, my experience at Kampa Fish was so strangely uneven that I can only try to describe what happened. Early that day I booked an outdoor table for two. That evening we wandered in through what appeared to be a waiters' station, though I could find no other means of ingress. The waiters were unconcerned. I asked for our table and they said sit anywhere — so much for the reservation.

We took a table with a river view and a semiclean linen tablecloth. Scratching her head to indicate her fierce contempt for hygiene, our waitress brought the menus. The wine menu was just the cover, no pages inside. We ordered a half-liter of Evian and they brought a quarter-liter. We asked for another wine menu and ordered appetizers, one from the indoor menu (expensive) and one from the outdoor (not cheap). They took away our silverware and brought new utensils, including a soupspoon mottled with old food. When we asked for another, our waitress looked at it disgustedly but couldn't be bothered to say sorry.

We started on the appetizers, though we were puzzled by the little rectangular dishes and thin daggers left on the table. "What are these for?" I asked. "The bread," the waitress said, a flash of recognition crossing her face. "It's coming." No apology: bread after starters. When it arrived, the narrow butter dish was only half-full, meaning we had to use the dagger points to dig out tiny pearls to drop on the rolls. The blades were too narrow to spread the butter. At this point it started to get funny.

I visited the washroom and was surprised by a red-aproned granny who came in to refill the plush cloth hand towels. The sink was dead cool, a stylish and impractical double-shelf of porcelain that has plenty of sheen but no depth.

The food: from the outdoor menu, a good gazpacho of the puréed (not chunky) variety, salty-sweet with nice, deep soylike notes. From the indoor list, a sea bass carpaccio much like ceviche: good, limey and salty but dried out on top. At 395 Kč ($16)? For a starter?

On to mains. Big, big plates bearing an outstanding turbot fillet from the indoor menu and a very nice whole grilled dorade, or bream, from the patio menu. The bream came with just two tablespoons of garlicky spinach as a side dish, though the fish was perfectly prepared: crispy skin, flaky white flesh inside. The turbot, served with a vanilla-scented coconut-milk sauce and baby zucchini, was remarkable. It should be: It cost 695 Kč.

We moved indoors for dessert — a nice plate of mixed chocolate dishes, fine for two — and were stunned, though not by the sweets. The place is huge, with entrances here and there and rooms telescoping, Versailles-style, one after the other, with unusual modern décor including a wall of candles suspended on wires and several tropical aquariums. Whether you call it chic or kitsch is up to you. (NB: There are cow-print banquettes, black tables and orchid-covered plastic tubes lit up with pink lights. If you call it chic, you're crazy.)

That's the narrative — the remainder is a series of weird impressions, like the pot of dead reeds placed outside, close to the living reeds of the riverbank. No glass of wine was under 150 Kč, even domestics, and that was for 15 centiliters. The cook who leaned out from the kitchen to say Fakt! Fakt! Fakt! in Czech. (Actually, that was probably English.) The waitress who brought glasses but not water or wine. The missing salt and pepper shakers outside, though they were available inside. The unlit candle on our table. The high prices. The crazy design.