A Furtive Step Into Noa Noa Land : A strange and beautiful place where a chef from Europe goes Polynesian and the menu goes bananas

“I hate those trendy restaurants where you need to make reservations months ahead,” fumed the Reluctant Gourmet when I told him I had snagged a table two weeks hence at Noa Noa. “It will probably be noisy. Filled with people wearing funny clothes. And waiters who are just actors-in-waiting. Do we really have to go there?”

I told him I thought he’d like it. “What kind of a name is Noa Noa anyway?” he wanted to know. I mentioned something about Gauguin and the South Seas, and his eyes lit up. I could see that Kelbo’s was on his mind, and I didn’t disabuse him of this notion. That may be why the restaurant itself came as such a shock.

“This is not the vision I had,” he said accusingly walking into what may be the most expensively attractive new space in Los Angeles. The ceilings are high, the chairs are handcrafted wrought iron, there are sconces on the walls. From the curving copper bar to the exotic onyx screens, everything about the room screams money. “I never said it was like Kelbo’s,” I said meekly as the RG glared across the table.

“I need a drink,” he replied.

The the menu came. “Purple mashed potatoes. Kiwi vinaigrette. Wasabi creme fraiche ,” he sputtered. “This isn’t food, this is marketing gone mad.” I mentioned something about the concept of “nouvelle Polynesian.” He took another look at the menu. “Do you believe,” he went on, “that they are actually serving something called ‘open-faced ravioli.’ It’s the most pretentious contradiction of terms I’ve ever heard.”

I suggested that he order something--anything. “What do you propose?” he said sarcastically. “The smoked and grilled sea bass with a potato and bacon vinaigrette perhaps?”

I said he might try the shrimp with white beans. It sounded simple and inoffensive. He agreed. He also agreed to start his meal with the tuna tartar. “I’ll eat anything you like,” he sighed buttering a roll as if it were the last bit of friendly food he was likely to encounter that evening.

It really was a shame that the RG was sitting in such a dark spot. The appetizers came, and they were beautiful. My oysters in sesame crust arrived on a big oval platter arranged around a scallion that had been split and decorated with black and white sesame seeds, so it looked like a very exotic insect. The oysters were delicious too--exactly what you might expect to find on some fantastic imaginary Polynesian island. The RG’s plate of tartar was even more lovely--a polygon arranged on a glass plate, surrounded by a small frilly salad and served with little half-circles of blinis. The plate itself was set on another plate filled with ice cubes. And that’s where the darkness of the room came in. The RG stuck his fork down toward the plate and put a bite in his mouth. And then he gave a shout of surprise: He had speared an ice cube.

He was not pleased. Although I kept telling him how delicious the tartar was, he felt it had tricked him. He looked upon the plate with deep suspicion. “This food doesn’t know its place,” he muttered, going off to the restroom.

“You’ll never believe it,” he said, when he had wended his way back through the crowded restaurant. “It’s all tiled in there--and when you stop to listen what you hear is surf crashing. It must be a tape. I thought it was extremely strange.”

“Have another drink,” I said.

“I’ll need it,” he replied, taking the first bite of his shrimp with white beans. “This is not my sort of dish.”

I asked what was wrong with it. “They’ve put some sort of sauce on the beans,” he said. They had: the beans tasted like beurre blanc. I thought it was pretty odd myself.

But I had no quarrel with the grilled chicken with mashed potatoes. The chicken in its mustard sauce was flavorful, juicy, beautifully cooked. The purple mashed potatoes were terrific. I was a happy woman.

“Good thing you ordered these homemade potato chips,” said the RG. “They’re the best thing I’ve eaten all night. I can’t wait to see what they’ve come up with for dessert.”

He didn’t have long to wait. And he was even more amused than I anticipated. For the desserts all had names like “sun of a sailor,” and “hot passion.” “But this is the one for me,” said the RG pointing to “chocolate dim sum.” “This I’ve got to try.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t . . . ,” I started to say. But he was determined. So while I ate hot airy little souffles with the tart tang of passion fruit (hot passion, of course), the RG toyed with what may be the strangest dessert I’ve ever been offered. Chocolate dim sum, filled with banana mousse. It was, in a word, awful.

“You know what this food reminds me of?” said the RG as we were leaving. “It’s as if somebody put a lot of food words into a hat and pulled them out to invent the dishes. How else could they have come up with a combination like chocolate dim sum filled with banana? Do you think we could stop at McDonald’s on the way home?”

While you may not want to take your own Reluctant Gourmet to Noa Noa--and you will want to be careful when ordering--you actually can eat very well here. Avoid the avocado soup--I honestly can’t imagine anybody gladly eating this creamy concoction with its vaguely soapy flavor. But don’t miss the wonderful colorful tomato salad-- various kinds of tomatoes (there are even dried tomatoes in the dressing) topped with huge leaves of Italian parsley and lots of Maui onions. Despite its rather strange-sounding name, that salad with Roquefort croutons and kiwi vinaigrette is very appealing. And the sauteed foie gras is straight-out delicious. So are the chicken and Oriental vegetable rolls in their spicy plum and pink peppercorn sauce. The open-faced ravioli, on the other hand, which changes every night, is as silly as it sounds.

Among the main courses, the seared tuna in its herb sesame crust is fine, the steak straightforward and the roasted rack of lamb inoffensive. The smoked and grilled sea bass is delicious, but the bed of creamed lentils on which it arrives is overwhelmed by herbs. The roasted Chinese duck suffers a similar fate. It’s an ordinary duck, but the fried rice with which it comes is simply drenched with too much of everything: too much cilantro, too much oil, too many kinds of rice. The single worst dish on the menu, though, is probably the sweetbreads, which are oily, vinegary and downright unpleasant.

The desserts are pretty--a little too pretty perhaps. They have a way of leaving you dissatisfied. The apricot Bavarian cream surrounded by a leaf of chocolate simply evaporates in your mouth. The sun of a sailor--mascarpone lemon cheesecake--is stylized and pretty, but it looks better than it tastes. And as far as I’m concerned, “sweet embrace” should be renamed “sweet nothings.”

What I can’t help feeling about Noa Noa is that it is trying just a little too hard. When you walk in the door you are greeted so effusively that you tend to turn around to see if there’s some celebrity behind you for whom this welcome is intended. The waiters describe the food with intense enthusiasm. Every dish looks as if it has been labored over. Even the bathroom has its shtick. This all feels good at first--but it gets tiring as the evening wears on.

Even the menu has to have its say. “Promise me one thing,” pleaded the RG. “Don’t ever bring me to another restaurant where the menu attempts to be politically correct.” With great flourish he read aloud, “Noa Noa concerns itself with ecological and environmental issues.”

Noa Noa

464 N. Bedford Drive, Beverly Hills. (213) 278-1904.

Open for lunch Monday through Friday, for dinner nightly. Full bar. Valet parking. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner for two, food only, $54-$86.

Recommended dishes: warm oysters in sesame seed crust, $9.50; colorful tomato salad, $8; roasted breast of chicken, $16.85; potato chips, $4.50; passion fruit mousse, $6.95.