Checking In on Hotel Food : Choices can be chancy

A press packet has just landed on my desk with a thunk. It announces the imminent opening of Checkers, a new downtown hotel so luxurious that it will offer three phones in every room, valets willing to pack your suitcase, personal fax machines, interpreters and tuxedos at a moment’s notice. The hotel will even have a spa with personal trainers.

Another luxury hotel is due to open any minute at the beach. Loews Santa Monica Beach Hotel will be cast in a different mold: the large pseudo-Victorian edifice is planning to be a classic American hotel.

Like all self-respecting hotels, both intend to have restaurants. I see you yawning. And why not? Hotel restaurants are traditionally large, undistinguished and expensive. But different though these hotels may be, they do have one thing in common: neither expects to house a typical hotel restaurant.

Hotel restaurants are changing, and it was Checkers’ sister hotel, Campton Place in San Francisco, that led the way. When Campton Place opened 6 years ago, it proved that it was possible for a hotel restaurant to be so intimate and innovative that people would come from all over just to eat the food. Other hotels soon followed in its footsteps, and these days you need not necessarily frown when faced with the prospect of a meal in an inn.

Unfortunately it’s too soon to cheer. Checkers and Loews may turn out to have wonderful restaurants, but a week of eating in hotels all over town taught me this lesson: When you eat in a hotel restaurant, you are taking your chances.

MONDAY: The Reluctant Gourmet is not pleased. The prospect of putting on a coat and tie to go to dinner in what he is sure will be a big stuffy room does not appeal to him. Pulling up to the Marriott in Century City to find a valet in a feathered hat does not help. “Do they think this is colonial India?” he asks crossly.

The dining room does not soothe him. “It looks like every hotel in America,” he frets, sinking into a banquette and trying to get the table close enough to him. This, he discovers, is impossible. “Why are these places always so uncomfortable?” he wonders, calling for a drink.

I have lured him here with a lively description of the delicious lunch I had last week. I’d started with a cup of intense fish soup, followed it with an impressive appetizer of smoked duck breast served on a heap of spicy caramelized jicama, and finished up with a salad that was a big pile of baby greens topped with thick slices of charred chicken breast. How was I to know that I had stumbled upon the best dishes on the menu?

So now the R.G. is frowning over an insipid Caesar salad while I try to pretend that this onion soup is more than just a bowl of gloppy melted cheese in a flavorless broth. The R.G. takes one bite of a piece of sea bass cooked into a hard lump and pushes it away while I pick at a plate of chicken that has been stir-fried too long. “I knew it was going to be just hotel food,” says the R.G., “I bet they can’t even make a good hamburger.”

The R.G. would rather not attempt dessert, but I persuade him to try a chocolate macadamia pie. This is not the best idea I’ve ever had. “It’s grainy and not very appealing,” he growls. “Please don’t ask me to eat in another hotel.”

J.W.’s in the J.W. Marriott in Century City, 2151 Avenue of the Stars, (213) 277-2777.

TUESDAY: I am looking at one of the priciest menus in town. “The R.G. is going to wish he had come,” I say, “I know he’d want that $39 lobster. And how could he resist a plate of caviar at $52?”

“Easily,” my friend replies. “He would hate to be here. He’d be sitting on this banquette cursing the fact that it’s not the right height for the table, tugging at his tie and complaining that this is a room designed for giants. And he probably would not appreciate this little free appetizer they’ve just given us.”

But we do. The tiny bites of Pacific lobster are so delicious that we forget all about the R.G. Everything at Gardens in the Four Seasons, in fact, turns out to be delicious. The salads are impeccable. Rack of lamb and marinated rack of veal are both superb. All the vegetables are impressive. And the desserts--most notably a hazelnut pudding souffle that is like a miniature Christmas pudding--are sheer delight.

“And,” says my friend, eating the last bites of an apple crisp and reaching for the little plate of cookies that has just appeared on our table, “the service hasn’t missed a beat. I can’t think of a single complaint.”

I agree that the meal has been a pleasure; the Four Seasons has another new chef and it has finally hit its stride. Still, I can’t keep myself from asking a question. “Would you spend your own money here?” I inquire.

My friend looks at me as if I am crazy. “For this amount of money,” she says, “we could have eaten anywhere in town. I mean, if I were spending my own money, why would I do it in a hotel restaurant?”

Gardens in the Four Seasons Hotel, 300 S. Doheny Drive, Los Angeles. (213) 273-2222.

WEDNESDAY: The R.G. is thrilled that he has missed another expensive dinner. He repeats that he has no intention of accompanying me to one more pretentious hotel. “You’ll be sorry,” I say brightly as I drive off to Le Bel Age.

As soon as I enter the room, I know that I am right. The maitre d’ who leads us to our table looks like a figure who attended the last czar of Russia. Are we comfortable? Can he do anything for us? We shake our heads and he disappears, only to return with small bottles of chilled vodka.

“A little drink before dinner?” he urges. How can we refuse him? We have just taken the first icy sips when he is back with tiny caviar-topped blini. “Please,” he says, “enjoy.” He gestures to the sad-faced musicians, indicating that they are here solely for our pleasure. Indeed, we are almost the only people in this darkly romantic room.

The evening unfolds like a dream. Is the food wonderful? Does it matter? A terrine of foie gras is a bit overcooked. For $19 there is not a lot of caviar on the scrambled eggs. But the maitre d’ is hovering over us, and it all begins to seem unreal. Here he is now, bearing a great rose-topped silver dome. He puts it down, removes the lid and intones, “coulibiac. “ The presentation, unfortunately, is more wonderful than the dish, which is not the complicated Russian concoction of pastry-wrapped salmon, but merely a feuilletage topped with salmon and rice.

But here he is again, bowing and scraping. He is covering the table with desserts, urging us to eat more. The music is pouring over us. Would we like a glass of wine? He’ll open a bottle, just for us. “With pleasure,” he repeats each time we ask for something.

The bill is enormous. “Who cares?” cries my friend. “Eating here is the culinary equivalent of a massage. I feel wonderful. I feel decadent. I’m so glad I came.”

Le Bel Age, 1020 N. San Vicente Blvd., West Hollywood, (213) 854-1111.

THURSDAY: When he hears about the Moscow night, the R.G. admits that he’s sorry to have missed it. He even condescends to take his chances and join me again for dinner.

But now he walks in the door and shudders. He looks around the newly redecorated Beverly Wilshire dining room, takes in its Victorian airs and shakes his head. “It’s so anonymous,” he says, “we could be in Tokyo or Toledo--or even Timbuktu.” When Regent Hotels bought the building they closed it up and spent a year remodeling; when it finally opened it looked like it had been here for a hundred years.

“Well, this open kitchen is a modern touch,” says the R.G. as we are led to our table. We are just passing the windows that expose the inner workings of the restaurant. Amid all this Victorian splendor it is a strange touch, a bizarre flash of chrome and steel that looks a bit out of place.

“This is strange too,” says the R.G., looking down at the menu. He’s right. The prices aren’t hotel-high; only a couple of dishes top $20. Even stranger--this menu is modern, interesting and completely unpretentious.

And the food is good. Oysters are small, sweet and very fresh. A salad comes topped with the most wonderful marinated and grilled shiitake mushrooms. Tiny ravioli filled with smoked chicken swim in a cup of consomme.

Entrees are even better. Each one comes with its own separate medley of vegetables. The R.G. devours a hefty veal chop as he tries to keep me away from his mashed potatoes. He can have them--the puree of creamed parsnips that accompanies this roast chicken satisfies me. A filet comes in a fine bordelaise sauce, and grilled swordfish is the thickest piece of fish I’ve seen in a while. Clearly the chef here knows what he is doing.

“He does have a few faults,” says the R.G., pointing at a pathetic plate of pasta in a creamy sauce filled with seafood. “That’s one dish I wouldn’t order again.”

“You mean,” I inquire, “you’d actually come back?” The R.G. sips his espresso and eats the last of my creme brulee. “If I had to eat in a hotel,” he says, “I’d just as soon that it was here.” He sighs, looks at the lone diner sitting at the next table and adds, “But why would anyone want to have dinner in a room filled with single men eating lonely meals?”

The Dining Room at the Beverly Wilshire, 9500 Wilshire Blvd., Beverly Hills, (213) 275-5200.

FRIDAY: “I’ve had enough of this chichi nonsense,” says the R.G. as we drive down Sunset Boulevard. “Now I am going to show you the best hotel restaurant in town.” I’m not quite sure what to expect, but I am incredulous when he pulls into the driveway of the Beverly Hills Hotel. “The Polo Lounge?” I ask. “It doesn’t quite seem like your sort of restaurant.”

“It isn’t,” he replies, “there’s a much better restaurant in this hotel.” As he talks he is leading me through the lobby and down a curving staircase. He rounds a corner into the coffee shop and settles himself into a high pink chair. “This,” he says grandly, “is my idea of a great restaurant. And that,” he says, pointing to the man flipping pancakes, “is my idea of a great cook. What do you want for breakfast?”

I order orange juice. The waitress calls to a man standing at the end of the counter and he starts slicing oranges. “See,” says the R.G., “they squeeze it to order. And they don’t use one of those contraptions that gets all the bitter oils into your juice.

“Do you know how few people know how to make eggs over easy?” he asks as his plate is set before him. “You’d be surprised. But these are perfect.” In fact everything at this counter is just about perfect. Somebody orders an English muffin and the waitress laboriously pulls it apart with a fork before plunking it into the toaster. The eggs are cooked in butter; the bacon is well-drained. The hot cakes are hot and fluffy, and they are served with a bottle of real maple syrup.

But eating this food is only part of the reason why breakfast here is such a treat; watching it get cooked is equally enjoyable. For Gary Bantler, the man working the grill, is as economical as a dancer. Wasting no motion and moving with no apparent haste he pours pancakes, grills bacon and scrambles eggs with great precision. He moves with such deliberation that he seems almost to be in slow motion. “I’ve heard he’s been cooking here for 32 years,” says the R.G. “Notice how he never seems to hurry, but think how much food has come off the grill in the last five minutes.”

Now we watch as he cuts a grapefruit, twisting the knife between the sections with quick little stabs. Watching him is such a pleasure that I almost order a half grapefruit just to see him do it again. “I wish I could come here for breakfast every day,” I muse. “You couldn’t afford it,” says the R.G. “This may be the only coffee shop in the country where 2 eggs, bacon, hash browns and orange juice costs $15. On the other hand,” he says, pushing himself off his seat, “hotel restaurants are always expensive. And this one, at least, is worth it.”

The Coffee Shop at the Beverly Hills Hotel, 9641 Sunset Boulevard, Beverly Hills, (213) 276-2251.