Beyond the cool factor

Since the moment the Viceroy opened its doors in 2002, the luxe Santa Monica hotel and its restaurant and bar have been thronged with locals looking for some action and travelers dropping in for some of that hip Westside vibe.

The Viceroy is the splashiest of several boutique hotels from the small Kor Hotel Group, but this is the only one with a serious restaurant. The owners scored a coup when they convinced Tim Goodell of Aubergine to take on the restaurant. The Newport Beach chef had been itching to find a project on the Westside.

When Whist opened, the kitchen came on strong, with a thrilling menu and smart execution. As long as Goodell was closely supervising the crew, things went swimmingly, but as he started spending more time in Newport Beach at Aubergine, and the opening chef de cuisine left, the cooking went south. Goodell stayed on as a consultant for a while, but the restaurant faded into the background as the hipsters took over the bar and the chic outdoor patio where they could set up camp and smoke in comfortable wing chairs, or from inside one of the wonderfully stylish private cabanas with roll-down Roman shades. (You can rent them for a party at an astronomical price.)

The management, though, is still intent on making a stab at a serious restaurant. Finding someone to fill Goodell’s clogs hasn’t been easy. The hotel is already on its third chef, but each time, the management has sought out someone highly qualified -- which shows its commitment to making Whist more than just the incredibly hot bar scene that it’s always been.

This time, it’s Warren Schwartz, who headed the kitchen at Saddle Peak Lodge in Calabasas for the last couple of years. The Patina alum had certainly revved up the food at Saddle Peak, so I thought he’d do something interesting at Whist.

By the time I arrived a few minutes late on a recent visit, my friends were already there, strolling around the foyer and lounge, taking in designer Kelly Wearstler’s neo-English Regency decor with fresh, wondering eyes. I found my sculptor friend eyeing the tongue-in-cheek plaster cameo over the check-in desk, and his wife ensconced in one of the white vinyl chaise longues, which are sort of the wing chair equivalent of a stretch Hummer.

Though it was awfully chilly out, girls were walking in sans coats, practically sans clothes. I rounded up my friends and we checked in with the host, who led us to a booth against a wall of English ironstone plates that runs the length of the dining room. The color scheme of white, kelly green, black and silvery gray rippling across the dining room still looks fresh -- it’s even beginning to grow on me.

As soon as we sat down, a server brought a choice of breads, all good -- the same sourdough, olive or walnut you’re offered at any restaurant with any pretensions these days. At first glance, the menu looks much shortened from the glory days under Goodell. At second glance, it’s hard to find something I haven’t eaten at every other trendy restaurant in town. Nothing jumps out at me -- except the occasional spelling mistake -- or at anybody else at the table, so we make a stab at ordering whatever.

I try the one dish that registers as the tiniest bit different: butternut squash soup garnished with Austrian pumpkin seed oil and crisp sage. The deep orange color is lovely against the porcelain bowl and the flavors marry nicely, but the texture is thick as porridge, which makes it hard to get through more than a few spoonfuls.

Kobe beef carpaccio, on the other hand, is more unexpected, especially because of a finely balanced aged sherry vinaigrette, along with pickled red onions, arugula and shaved Parmesan. This is one dish where the flavor and texture of Kobe beef shines in the red-meat equivalent of sashimi. The raw beef is so tender you could practically cut it with a spoon.

These days beet salad is as ubiquitous as wilted spinach salad used to be. Whist’s version feels deconstructed -- a wisp of puff pastry in the center, with some chalky goat cheese, pink and red beets, arugula leaves and pine nuts drizzled with balsamic vinegar, which gives the salad a sweet edge that doesn’t flatter a thing. Of course, you can’t have a menu in L.A. without a take on Caesar salad. Here, it’s whole hearts of romaine, which needed to be crisper and colder. The dark, crunchy croutons were the best thing going in this salad-by-rote. Not only do you not get a real Caesar dressing anymore, but by pulling the cheese out of the dressing and shaving it over the top, it’s never really integrated into the salad.

Where I’d hoped for something as irreverent and daring as the hotel’s decor, Whist’s menu plays it very conservative, with a hit list of L.A.’s most popular dishes. That would have to include ahi tartar, of course. Is there a more boring dish on the face of the earth? Here, the soy dressing isn’t interesting enough on its own to cover the taste of the sub-par tuna. Grade C.

But the kitchen can make a mean Peekytoe crab cake. Golden and fluffy, without a lot of filler, it comes with an ensemble of fennel salad and bright lemon aioli. Nothing new here, but it’s competent and straightforward.

That night we order two different fish dishes, pan-seared striped bass and Tai snapper, but they both taste remarkably alike. Each has another seafood element, grilled calamari salad with one, pretty, little rock shrimp with the other. The first comes with crushed potatoes and some artichokes, the other with butternut squash. As collages of flavors, they barely register; they seem to be assembled more for effect than for anything serendipitous in the combination of ingredients.

Over several visits, I tried almost everything on the menu. Nothing was flat-out terrible, but nothing particularly grabbed you, either. The chef has decided not to play the game card: There’s not a single game dish on his menu. And though some of the meat dishes sounded good on paper, it was truly hard to tell whether you were eating lamb or beef. Sauces tended to be baked onto the plate like a glaze. The chickpea crepe that accompanied the Colorado lamb loin caught my eye. Now that’s something interesting; but when it came, the crepe was stuffed with a rather gummy goat cheese. And the plate was strewn with artichokes, Japanese eggplant and sticky sweet sun-dried tomatoes all around. Very ‘80s.

Black Angus tenderloin arrives like a parody of tall food, the base a soggy celery root cake, topped with sauteed spinach, then the two-inch-plus tenderloin (medium rather than the medium-rare we requested) and onion rings on top of that. It’s awkward to eat, but the quality of the meat is excellent, better than the grilled New York strip, which arrives already sliced for you -- not a good thing, in my opinion. I do, however, enjoy the mushroom bread pudding that comes with it.

Whist’s wine list ranges far and wide, including the category “global whites.” But for every category, you can find something that’s interesting and fairly priced for a hotel restaurant -- not a lot of them, but some, like the Pinot Grigio from Alois Lageder in the Alto Adige region of Italy or Patricia Green’s Oregon Pinot Noir from Shea Vineyard.

Desserts have a hard act to follow. The first pastry chef was Shelly Register of Aubergine, who had the inspired idea to make whole apricot tarts for the table or an English trifle in a glass bowl. The current dessert menu is much more conventional. Just about every place has a chocolate souffle cake on the menu; here it’s offered as a duet with a miniature warm vanilla cake. If pastry chef Simon Becerra turned down the sweetness just a little, these would be lovely. He makes a deconstructed carrot cake, too, taking the frosting off and turning it into a cream cheese mousse with a carrot ginger confit. It may not be original, but it’s nicely conceived. The best dessert, though, is his pear rosemary tarte Tatin, made with Anjou pears on a light, flaky pastry and served with a scoop of Marsala gelato.

Before Schwartz ever arrived, Whist had lost its momentum. Serious foodies are tired of the revolving chefs, the high noise level, and the sometimes indifferent service. It’s such a scene at the Viceroy that even getting your car to the valet becomes an ordeal. Why bother, if the food doesn’t merit running the gauntlet of suburban hipsters?

It looks like the hipsters have won.

*

Whist

Rating: * 1/2

Location: Viceroy Santa Monica, 1819 Ocean Ave. (at Pico Boulevard), Santa Monica; (310) 260-7500, www.viceroysantamonica.com.

Ambience: Tongue-in-cheek English Regency-meets-the ‘60s in this hotel restaurant’s quirky decor, which includes walls covered with ironstone plates and a stylish outdoor patio replete with black-and-white cabanas and white vinyl wing chairs. Meanwhile, the bar spills over with a young and trendy crowd.

Service: Personable and attentive.

Price: Dinner appetizers, $11 to $19; entrees, $29 to $38; desserts, $8 to $12; chef’s four-course tasting menus, $69 per person, wine pairings $50 additional.

Best dishes: Oysters on the half shell, seared diver scallops, Peekytoe crab cake, Kobe beef carpaccio, farmers market beet salad, pan-seared striped bass, grilled New York strip, Kobe beef burger, pear rosemary tarte Tatin.

Wine list: Wide-ranging and, for a hotel restaurant, relatively well priced. Corkage, $25.

Best table: A table with wing armchairs outside on the patio, or one of the booths inside.

Special features: Private cabanas to rent for a special dinner party.

Details: Open for breakfast 7 to 11 a.m., lunch 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. and dinner 6 to 10:30 p.m. daily. Sunday brunch from 11 a.m. to

2 p.m. Full bar. Valet parking, $7.

Rating is based on food, service and ambience, with price taken into account in relation to quality. ****: Outstanding on every level. ***: Excellent. **: Very good. *: Good. No star: Poor to satisfactory.