A peculiar mystery by the sea

The beachside restaurant is filled with some of the thinnest people on the planet, and possibly some of the richest, if the luxury rides pulling up front are any indication. The crowd is dressed in summer chic -- men in handkerchief linen shirts and blue blazers, women in wispy dresses or skinny pants, tanned and toned, skin bared and painted toes wriggling in strappy high-heeled sandals. It’s a crowd that would fit in at any chic beach resort in the world. It could be Forte dei Marmi or the Costa Smeralda, but it just happens to be Santa Monica.

It’s the new Ivy at the Shore in Santa Monica, moved cushion by cushion, tchotchke by tchotchke, down the block to new quarters (this time owned, not leased) on Ocean Avenue. Despite the familiar nautical and vintage Hawaiian-themed decor, the new space feels chillier than the old, more glossy; the funky charm somehow didn’t make the move. The outdoor courtyard in back where you could sit, propped on flowery cushions, and eat in the dark, was left behind too.

But the new location has a similar glassed-in sidewalk terrace with a roof that opens to the sky and the breeze, and a view of the moon peeking through the palms on the palisades. And that’s the place to sit, unless you want to end up shouting across the table at your dinner guests.

You may have to wait for a table, but never mind; it’s entertaining to watch the mixologist at the bar whipping out martinis, margaritas and Manhattans for the svelte diners. Or to inspect the colorful old prints and posters, the primo Hawaiian shirts and even, in one case, a sundress, displayed under glass. Overhead, a life preserver reads “true love”; an enchanting trio of antique model ships sails through the air.

By unique design

Like the original Ivy on Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood, Ivy at the Shore has a distinctive look created by Lynn von Kersting, who owns both with partner, pastry chef Richard Irving of L.A. Desserts.

My dinner guest one night is excited to be invited to the Ivy. He’s heard about it for years, but never been. And when we meet, he’s just back from several months living and working in Italy. He can’t get over the fact that he never saw any fat people there.

“It’s portion control,” he insists. “Here, everything is super-sized. I don’t want a 32-ounce Coke or a one-pound burger!”

Mmm, I murmur, desperately trolling through the wine list for a bottle that would, one, be drinkable, and two, be affordable. Only two of the Italian reds are under $50, and in just over a dozen entries, the prices quickly ratchet to $450, this last for a Gaja Sperss Barolo. I finally zero in on Antinori’s Peppoli Chianti Classico from the 2001 vintage at $48, a wine that is about $15 retail. We may be paying through the nose for it, but at least it’s a lovely Chianti, tasting of earth and cherries, and an absolute pleasure to drink.

It’s a mystery, though, why all these skinny people are here, where the portions could rival El Cholo’s for sheer, well, munificence. Huge plates sail by, entirely covered with food, more than any one person should ever consider eating at one session. Portions may be huge, but the plating is so slapdash, nothing looks that appetizing.

Pale, French-fried calamari is remarkable for how little flavor the squid has. That dollop of white glop that looks like cottage cheese is actually tartar sauce, which the calamari sorely needs.

My lasagna one night arrives with a garnish of green twigs. What’s this, I wonder, picking up a piece and inspecting it more closely. It’s watercress, practically leafless and as tired looking as if it had been plucked out of the compost heap. The lasagna must weigh several pounds, it’s so loaded with cheese, meatballs and tomato sauce ladled on with a heavy hand.

OK, I have noticed that model types tend to order the grilled vegetable salad and then just pick at it, spending more calories on their cocktails than on dinner. But still, not every one of these skinny people is eating salad. Or are they?

Cold poached artichoke is practically as big as a melon, and with some tasteless tomatoes tucked between the leaves, along with what taste like packaged commercial croutons and a little fresh basil. The artichoke is waterlogged and so vinegary, everybody at the table bites into one leaf and then leaves it.

Steamed mussels aren’t the small glossy ones from Prince Edward Island, but the big, green-lipped New Zealand ones, in a dull broth with diced tomatoes. Mussels can be some of the most delicious food on Earth. But not these.

Pizza, please

The menu at Ivy on the Shore is very similar to the one at the Ivy, except for one thing. At the new location, they’ve installed a wood-burning oven for pizzas, and surprise: The pizzas are perhaps the best thing on the menu. They’re also not oversized, so they’re perfect to share as an appetizer.

They’re not overwrought with ingredients, or cheese, which is a relief. That said, the bufala mozzarella pizza with fresh tomatoes and basil at $15.75 uses the skimpiest amount possible of the expensive fresh cheese, so little in fact, you can barely taste it. The pizza embellished with provolone cheese, pancetta and Louisiana shrimp or the porcini and wild mushroom version are a bit more substantial.

The Ivy’s corn chowder is reliably good too, fired up with hot chile and laced with fresh corn. It’s possible that the kitchen may have cheated and added a little sugar to the corn to sweeten it, but the overall effect is pure comfort. The other standby is the Ivy’s fried chicken, which is worth seeking out and quite possibly the only bargain (at $28.75) on the menu. You get practically a whole chicken, the pieces shaggy and golden, maybe a little more cooked than I would like it, but delicious nevertheless. And enough to make supper for two.

But none of the other main courses I tried measured up. Mesquite-grilled wild salmon is so overcooked, it’s virtually ruined. Swordfish is dried out too. Colorado rack of lamb chops are OK, but for a staggering $45.75 you’d expect some of the most delicious chops ever to pass your lips. These are decidedly not.

The signature Louisiana black pepper shrimp comes with rice that could be Uncle Ben’s and a sauce that looks like motor oil and tastes like a combination of blackstrap molasses and vinegar. My sister is not happy that I suggested she order it one night; she calls the next morning to say that dinner was one of the worst meals she’s ever had in a restaurant -- and she’s not picky.

My Italophile friend boldly orders the tagliarini with porcini and wild mushrooms and “a touch of cream,” according to the menu. When the waiter sets the large bowl in front of him, he squawks, “In Italy, this would be a portion for four!” And this is no exaggeration. The noodles, which are fettuccine-wide, not tagliarini-thin, are drowning in cream and sliced mushrooms. A touch of cream? The noodles are cooked way past al dente too.

One night, three out of four main courses come with a piece of broccoli the size of a small tree, steamed so lightly it’s practically raw. We all take one bite and leave it. Sad, really.

Meanwhile, I notice the couple next to us studying their prime rib. This isn’t prime rib, the man tells his wife. This is a steak. Prime rib or steak, she says, I can’t cut it with this knife. When my dinner guest’s order of the same dish arrives, the couple leans over to ask what we think: steak or prime rib? It looks like a big chop, but tastes like an ordinary steak. What a letdown.

Then I notice the telltale adjective affixed to the menu description -- Cajun -- which must explain why it’s blackened and cooked to within an inch of its life. We should have known. The Ivy has a Southern bent to its menu.

That couple’s broccoli isn’t going anywhere either. And when they finally pay and get up to leave, they announce to one and all that they’re never coming back. They’ll stick with Dan Tana’s, thank you very much.

Service at the Ivy runs with military precision. Get those people in and get them out. I’ve learned that if you don’t ask the waiter to slow it down, your main courses will arrive just as you’re taking your last bite of appetizer. At these prices, you should be allowed to take your time. But then the impressively numerous wait staff would be left cooling their heels. Trouble is, the service doesn’t come across as the royal treatment, but more as the bum’s rush.

Bring a sweet tooth

The one dessert at the Ivy I’ve always liked is the do-it-yourself sundae, scoops of homemade ice cream served with pitchers of caramel and dark chocolate fudge sauce, a bowl of toasted almonds, and not to forget, whipped cream. What’s not to like? But the rest of the offerings from L.A. Desserts, are just as big and just as iffy as most of the food here. They could have come from the twirling pastry case at a deli. Caution: You’ll need a serious sweet tooth to enjoy them.

I’m left wondering why this place is so popular. The food is marginally better at the original Ivy, not that most people really care. The reason you go to the original Ivy is to see celebrities. It’s one of the few places in town where the stargazing is reliably good. But Ivy at the Shore doesn’t have that star power, nor the pretty picket fence and roses of the original.

Let’s just call it one of L.A.’s unsolved mysteries.

*

Ivy at the Shore

Rating: Half a star

Location: 1535 Ocean Ave., Santa Monica; (310) 393-3113.

Ambience: Chic sister restaurant to the Ivy in West Hollywood with a similar American comfort food menu, but this one with a nautical- and Hawaii-themed decor and an enclosed sidewalk patio.

Service: Ruthlessly efficient.

Price: Dinner appetizers, $12.75 to $18.75; pizzas, $15.75 to $18.75; main courses, $26.75 to $45.75; sides, 4.75 to $8.75; desserts, $10.75 to $15.

Best dishes: Corn chowder, pizzas, grilled vegetable salad, fried chicken, sundae.

Wine list: Very high markups and not enough bottles under $50. The Ivy is also one of the few restaurants in town that does not allow diners to bring a bottle and pay a corkage fee.

Best table: One on the outer edge of the sidewalk patio.

Details: Open 11:30 a.m. to 11 p.m. Monday through Friday, and 11 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Full bar. Valet parking.

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.