At your service?

ONCE upon a time in Southern California, there was a thing called a fancy restaurant. The chef had pretensions, the service was haughty, the decor stuffy, the check heart-stopping -- and the experience altogether intimidating.

You probably thought restaurants like this were ancient history, especially in Los Angeles. I certainly did. But that was before I experienced a few meals at the Belvedere, the restaurant in the Peninsula Beverly Hills hotel.

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Lunch with the family

A sleek black stretch limo pulls up the circular drive -- looks like someone important, a movie star, or ... could that be Sen. John McCain getting out and striding past the Lamborghini and the Porsche GT on display? Indeed it is. Looks like he’s checking in.

It’s Saturday noon and the weather’s fine, so my husband, son and I happily accept a table outside in the garden. Though there are only a few taken, we’re shown to a table toward the back. It’s too warm for Siberia; this feels more like Elba.

Chardonnay? chirps the waiter, when we ask for a glass of white wine.

Twenty-five long minutes pass before the first courses come. Nor are they particularly worth the wait. Roasted poblano and wild mushroom tamale is unpleasantly cakey and lacks mushroom flavor. The lobster-ginger pot stickers’ honey-soy dipping sauce is so sweet and salty it overpowers the delicate dumplings.

The waiter asks if we’d like another glass of wine (we’ve almost finished our glasses during the long wait for our starters). We make the mistake of telling him we’d like a moment to consider what kind. (No offer of a list now, nor earlier, when we sought alternatives to the proffered Chardonnay.)

Our main courses come, no wine. We ask the busboy to send the waiter, who doesn’t show up to get our wine order until we’re halfway done with our main courses. At that point, a loud party pours out from the lobby onto the terrace just next to us, lots and lots of ladies talking and cackling to beat the band.

And we still don’t have our wine. No one checks on us, and since we’re in Elba, we can’t flag a server down. Sound like a nightmare? It is. We can’t wait to get out of there.

As the waiter hands us the check, he says, apropos of nothing, “Well, I discussed it with my manager, and we’re going to comp your desserts because of that party.”

Somehow he manages to make it feel like an insult.

Did I mention there’s a newish chef? Sean Hardy, who was sous-chef under the previous chef, Bill Bracken, became executive chef last October.

I’m hoping things will be much better at dinner.

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Dinner with friends

SEVERAL nights later, I’m back for a midweek dinner with two female friends, my boss and a high-powered literary agent. This time, we sit inside; the stodgy hotel dining room, with its somber pillars and Regency sconces, could use a face-lift. At least the bad hotel carpet, ubiquitous ficus plants and plush upholstered banquettes mean good acoustics -- what an unaccustomed treat to converse comfortably.

We peruse the menu.

A “small bites” section is a nice idea -- it offers little tastes of some compelling first courses. A cucumber-coconut gazpacho shooter is lovely and refreshing. The famous truffled Taleggio-rich macaroni and cheese, which was fabulous at lunch, is almost fabulous tonight.

The duck liver trio is a strikeout: a silly little pineapple upside-down cake, minuscule portions of duck liver, the seared one overcooked.

The best of our first courses is a convincing chowder of lightly smoked clams, fresh corn and chipotle cream.

Since we’ll be needing a red wine for the main course, I ask to see the sommelier.

A rather puffed-up Frenchman appears tableside. How, I ask him, is the 2001 d’Angerville Volnay drinking?

He pushes out his bottom lip in disgust. He looks down his nose, snorts derisively. The Volnay? A Pinot Noir is indeed what is required, he tells us, but that Volnay?

My friends and I are flabbergasted. Didn’t he put together this list? He’s pooh-poohing his own wine? Is it because the bottle is a mere $68? Do diners who order one of the expensive California cult Cabs that form the backbone of the list get better treatment?

Despite the service and the inconsistent food -- the truffled veal chateaubriand was earthy and fabulous, the Pekin duck was tortured into a Modernist vision -- we manage to have a nice enough evening. Whether it was worth $472 (including tip) is another question entirely.

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Dinner with Frenchmen

ON my next visit, I bring in the heavy artillery, two Frenchmen who have no patience for places that serve up attitude.

This time, it’s the same sommelier, but when he finds himself dealing with two gentlemen with French accents, he dials back the haughtiness a couple of notches. Still, something tells me the way he treated my friends and me the other night had more to do with our gender than our American accents.

Tonight, he’s not particularly helpful when asked to help us decide between two Burgundies and a Bordeaux. He steers us away from the Bordeaux, a Pomerol. Nor is he particularly enthusiastic about either Burgundy, though he recommends the $125 Nuits-St.-George over a $90 Beaune without saying why. “Is there something else you’d recommend?” I ask. He offers nothing.

Is the Beaune, a 2002 Joseph Drouhin Clos des Mouches, perhaps a little young? We order it and ask him to decant it, an idea he seems to find odd. The wine is lovely, though served too warm (and too late to take it down a few degrees; it’s been decanted). The whites, on every visit, are served far too cold.

As it turns out, this fellow is the restaurant manager; he’s just standing in for the sommelier (the restaurant has been without one for a month; a new one is expected shortly). All that attitude, and he’s not even a sommelier.

The service on this last visit unrolls like an outtakes reel. My friend Yves has to wait an eternity for his aperitif, a Pernod. When the waiter finally brings it, he trips, sending the Evian bottle on his tray flying over to the next table, where it spills all over an annoyed couple. No one checks to see that the steaks are cooked properly, nor inquires why the overcooked one was barely touched. Is everything OK? No one bothers to ask. A tiny spoon for the tomato cream component of an heirloom tomato terrine appetizer is forgotten, leaving me to wonder how on earth it should be eaten. My normally serene husband is reduced to waving his arms frantically to get someone to bring more bread.

While the tomato terrine, served alongside a delicate little Dungeness crab salad, is outstanding, the main courses are inconsistent, as on past visits. Once again, the rosy-pink veal chateaubriand is a standout, roasted with truffles and served with saucy wild mushrooms. A sea bass special with fava beans and truffles is overcooked (as was a halibut dish at lunch; this kitchen clearly has trouble with fish). Roasted bone-in Kansas City strip loin arrives medium-well, rather than medium-rare as ordered. The arugula gratin that comes with it is a complete flop, gloppy and unpleasant.

The truffled pommes frites that accompany the strip loin are the only real surprise in three visits: the quarter-inch ribbons of shaved potato have an incredible texture and a beguiling flavor.

At last, the end of the meal, the cheese course. But no casual tossed-together tray here; the Belvedere has a formal cheese trolley. The waiter wheels it over and begins his presentation. The cheeses are all domestic, he explains. “This one,” he says, pointing to one, “is called Lamb Chopper.”

“What is that?” I ask.

“It’s, um, a lamb cheese,” he says.

Lambs are giving milk now? At a loss, the waiter pulls over another server -- maybe he knows the cheeses better. The two bluff their way through.

What about the Bravo white cheddar in front, I ask. Can they tell me about it?

“Uh ... no,” he says.

And suddenly, in that moment, the facade is stripped away. They look a little forlorn.

Sure, it’s a relief that the haughtiness disappears. But it’s no victory.

If the service had been professional; if the overcooked steak had been returned to the kitchen to be cooked to the right temperature; if the Pernod had been presented properly, in a tall glass with ice, with the water on the side; if the sommelier had politely acknowledged our choices, then suggested a terrific Burgundy we didn’t know about at an appropriate price; if the white wine wasn’t ice cold; if the bread was replenished without my husband waving his arms; if someone had simply bothered to see if everything was OK -- then I would have won.

Finally, the entire wait staff approaches our table. Are they coming to make amends? They’re bearing pastry.

It’s a chocolate cake that says “Happy birthday, Kelsey” on it. “Whose birthday is it?” asks a waiter. “Who’s Kelsey?”

None of us, we tell them. It’s obviously meant for another table.

“Cancel the singing,” says a busboy, flatly.

The cake is placed on our table anyway.

“But what about Kelsey?” my husband says.

“That’s OK,” says the server. “You can have it.”

Happy birthday, Kelsey. Sorry we ate your cake.

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The Belvedere

Rating: *

Location: The Peninsula Beverly Hills, 9882 S. Santa Monica Blvd., Beverly Hills; (310) 788-2306.

Ambience: Stuffy hotel dining room with outdated decor. At least it’s quiet, so you can talk.

Service: From clueless to haughty to insulting.

Price: Dinner appetizers, $13 to $21; small bites, $6 to $15; main courses, $28 to $45; desserts, $9 to $12.50. Four-course fall tasting menu, $54.

Best dishes: Heirloom tomato terrine with Dungeness crab; macaroni and cheese; California clam chowder; truffle-roasted chateaubriand of veal.

Wine list: California-heavy, with strong emphasis on cult Cabernets. Few surprises, no bargains. A glass of non-vintage Laurent Perrier rose is $29. Corkage, $25.

Best table: One in the center or a banquette facing the garden.

Details: Open for breakfast, 6:30 to 11: 30 a.m. Lunch, 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Dinner, 6 to 10:30 p.m. Full bar, valet parking, $5.

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.

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S. Irene Virbila is on vacation.