Why There Won’t Be a Top 43 List : Despite the urgings of their defenders, there were reasons these three didn’t make the final cut. And surprise, they are still valid

It was while I was operating on their canary, one writer began, that I discovered my best clients were also the owners of my favorite restaurant.

Unfortunately, this letter writer had a hard time understanding that the canary’s parents were not the owners of my favorite restaurant. She was shocked and disappointed.

The veterinarian’s letter was just one of a flood that came pouring in after the publication of my Top 40 Restaurants (Los Angeles Times Magazine, May 6). “Do you actually eat in the restaurants that you review?” one writer wanted to know. Another spoke of my “poor little Gucci-clad tootsies” tootling around town in a Rolls-Royce that is reluctant to stray far from Westside roads. There was a flurry of similarly worded cards about San Pedro’s Papadakis Taverna saying that it was not one of the best restaurants in the area, but one of the best restaurants in the world. We heard from neighbors. We heard from celebrities. We heard from the restaurants themselves.

But what we heard most, in the final analysis, was about three particular restaurants. In fact, all of the following restaurants had so many defenders that despite the fact that I have eaten in each several times, I decided to go back and try them again. I was completely prepared to eat my words.

L’Orangerie is, without any doubt, one of the most attractive restaurants in L.A.

Tonight it seems especially lovely; we have arrived early and sit for a long time watching the light fade from the windows and the room grow golden with the light of candles. Dinah Shore is at one table with a group of people who seem to be having a taste-off of Jack Daniels and Wild Turkey. There’s a gorgeous starlet at another. Virtually everybody in the room looks beautiful. It is hard not to be happy to be here.

Provided, that is, that you are not paying the bill. For these prices are hard to swallow. Take this salad. It is a wonderful salad dressed in a delightful vinaigrette sprinkled with big chunks of Roquefort cheese and what the menu calls croustillants de pommes de terre (these turn out to be the world’s fanciest potato chips). It’s a swell salad. An extremely swell salad. But I have yet to meet the salad that is worth $17 to me.

Price isn’t the only problem. Take these eggs with caviar. It is one of the most beautiful dishes I know--two egg shells filled with soft, creamy, perfectly scrambled eggs and topped with so much black caviar that you feel you are getting your money’s worth, even at $26. But whoever spooned this king’s ransom of caviar onto the eggs has left his mark: distinct black fingerprints decorate the shells. It is--at the very least--disconcerting.

The problem with the white asparagus soup is different again. It’s a pale and lovely soup, and the waiter did not lie when he said that it was made without cream. Unfortunately, it was also made without flavor. Blindfolded, I could not tell you what kind of soup it was.

The entrees are good. But they are not great. I love the conceit of the lotte with lobster sauce. This fish is often called “poor man’s lobster” because its texture is somewhat akin to lobster tail. And the sauce on this fish is a wonder; it is amazingly intense, so that the flavor of the lobster comes shining through. But the lotte itself has been so thinly sliced that the texture is nothing like lobster. It’s too bad; the whole point of the dish has been lost. The noodles with which it is served don’t help; they sit miserably on the plate in a stuck-together clump.

This grilled turbot, on the other hand, is a fabulous piece of fish. It comes with three delightful little ovals of potato puree and some rather wonderful caramelized leeks. Even at $36, I don’t feel I’m being overcharged.

But it is the only dish of the day that seems worth the money. The white peach tart is a nice tart--but the peaches have no flavor. The sorbets are not as flavorful as they might be. And as I plunk down more than $100 per person for this meal, I can’t help thinking how glad I am that it is not my money.

L’Orangerie, 903 N. La Cienega Blvd., West Hollywood. (213) 652-9770.

“If you don’t want this table,” says the maitre d’ with a gesture, “you can sit in the gazebo. It’s even nicer.” He points off into the interior of La Serre. I am instantly suspicious. Why are they being so good to us? Have I been spotted?

I certainly hope not. Because if the restaurant is out to impress, it ought to come up with something better than this mealy bit of bread. We are not off to a good start.

Unfortunately, things don’t get better. The service is sweet, helpful and professional. The room is lovely. But the food is just not up to snuff. Consider this warm foie gras . A few skimpy slices are served in a blueberry sauce so full of vinegar that the strong smell of hot acid comes wafting unattractively across the table.

In fact, I can’t say that anything we’re eating is much of a hit. Soupe au pistou is just an unimpressive puree of vegetables. The croutons in the salad are sad. And when the very sweet waiter removes the dishes from the first courses, it is only to replace them with plates of complimentary sorbets. Served on rose petals, these are lovely to look at. Too bad they taste so much like iced perfume.

The main courses are not an improvement. Duck with mangoes is overcooked. Grilled rouget comes in a clumsy wine sauce. There is too much garlic in the potatoes, and the asparagus has been cooked until it starts to turn brown.

Without any doubt, the best thing we eat all night is a hot apple tart served with whipped cream melting across the top. La Serre may be a nice place. It may have a lot of fans. But the prices are high, and I certainly wouldn’t call it one of the 40 best restaurants in Southern California.

La Serre, 12969 Ventura Blvd., Studio City. (818) 990-0500.

“We come here every year on Valentine’s Day,” announce my friends as we meet at Le Chardonnay. Walking in the door, their faces shine; they link hands, they each take a deep breath.

It is a breathtaking restaurant--a room so charming that your heart lifts as you sink into your seat. A faithful replica of a turn-of-the-century Parisian bistro, Le Chardonnay manages a sort of restaurant magic that makes you feel as if you have walked right out of time.

This is such a magical room that you don’t notice when the noise goes up and you start shouting. It is, in reality, one of those loud Los Angeles restaurants everybody is always complaining about, but it is visually so quiet, the service so pleasantly solicitous, that you hardly bother to notice.

People go out to eat for lots of reasons. They may love the way a restaurant looks, or the way it makes them feel. It may be the restaurant where they fell in love, or it may be the one where they always get a good table. Food is often completely incidental to the restaurant experience. But not to me.

I always want the food to be wonderful. The more beautiful the room I’m eating in, the higher my expectations. This can be hard on my friends. While they are eating up the atmosphere, I am complaining about the food.

Right now, for instance, I can’t help noticing that the Louisiana crab cakes one friend is eating, have all the appeal of soggy bread crumbs. The texture of the cakes is mushy, and the mustard sauce in which they sit so overwhelming that any crab flavor that might have been present is totally masked. He seems blissfully unaware of all this. “Aren’t these wonderful?” he asks happily.

His wife is eating cold tomato soup filled with lots of basil and little balls of melon. She thinks it’s wonderful; I think it has a sort of silly “be creative with your food” sort of quality. I try not to say so.

But my grumpiness must be catching. Although I try to be nice about the three tiny soft-shell crabs on my plate, they have been crisped beyond redemption. All at once my friends start looking at their own plates in dismay. “This Chinese duck,” says Ken very distinctly, “is dry.”

“So is this grilled breast of chicken,” says Patty. I point out that the vegetables--especially a buttery little bundle of whole leaf spinach--are very nice. My friends are no longer so easy to impress. By dessert time, Patty is looking at her profiterolles with suspicion and Ken is expressing outrage over the price of a dish of unripe berries.

“Maybe we’ll go someplace else next year for Valentine’s Day,” he says as we exit.

Le Chardonnay, 8284 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles, (213) 655-8880.