I want you to look at the dish I photographed. It was a Chilean sea bass special, with ravioli and scallops. Upon reflection, the word that comes to my mind is "possibilities."

Perhaps it's a little unfair to focus on a dish that may never appear on the Fish Hopper menu again, but I bet on the night my companion and I visited this Cannery Row seafood eatery, this particular dish sold well. Upon arriving at their destined tables, I'm confident that their recipients gasped mightily.

I'm equally confident that, upon taking a steaming mouthful of this dish, they experienced the most profound disappointment imaginable, perhaps even pausing mid-chew to contemplate how astonishingly, galactically flavorless this beautiful meal turned out to be.

Nestled on a shallow pool of curry-adjacent sauce, the ravioli had the consistency and flavor profile of Elmer's glue. The benighted sea bass seemed to vanish on the tongue, deprived of its mildly salty smokiness. The scallop was like a stale marshmallow. No salt. No pepper. No garlic or onion. No scallions. Nothing. It was like eating the wind, but with lashings of wheat paste. The basic tenet of professional cooking is to season the dish at every stage - what happened? Did the line cook who moonlights at the hospital commissary prepare this meal? Was the CDC absent during quality checks? What?

The main I had, which was some sort of forgettable fettuccine Alfredo dish, was equally bland and glue-like. I've literally blocked it out of my mind.

We tried their "award winning" clam chowder - it was entirely too milky and thick, and lacked any hint of clam flavor, even though the clam meat was clearly in evidence. If I had wanted a corn starch slurry, I would have stayed at home and done it myself. Bereft of depth and complexity and pepper, except that which I added. Maybe I should have included salt, too.

That was preceded by the iceberg wedge, an old standby that was not only pleasant to the sight, but the only item we had that night that contained any taste. I mistook this single victory of theirs for what might follow.

The Fish Hopper is a tired Cannery Row tourist-pleaser better known for its unbeatable views of the water. My companion and I saw whales breaching in the distance. That is the show one is really paying for; and if the Monterey Bay Aquarium wasn't enough, the sight of sea creatures being wild and free is worth the price of admission. One easily forgets the rubber-chicken quality food in the convivial presence of loved ones, and surrounded by the majestic Pacific Ocean.

But if Fish Hopper expects to continue truthfully advertising itself as "award winning," along with its gelatinous chowder, then it had better focus on the possibilities suggested by that glorious-looking sea bass dish, and endeavor to match appearances with taste.