RESTAURANT REVIEW : Entrees Darken Outlook at Revamped Central Park West

I believe that Central Park West in Brentwood was the first place I ever “did lunch” in this town. That is, somebody who wanted to employ me picked up the tab. With its exposed brick and subfloor and view of the green grounds of the Veterans Administration, the old Central Park West aped a kind of New York-by-the-park ambience.

Looking back, I can also see it was a perfect representation of transition between the changing trends in L.A. restaurants: a cross between the fern bars of the ‘70s and the hyper-sophisticated postmodern bistros of the late ‘80s and the ‘90s. At lunchtime, it filled up with executive secretaries and young lawyers, magazine editors and--yes, young writers--from the nearby office buildings. When I ate chicken salads, clam chowder and tuna sandwiches there among all the well-employed, I felt full of hope for the future and was certain that my career was going swimmingly.

So when I returned to Central Park West in its new incarnation as a California restaurant and jazz club, I arrived with pleasant, if somewhat vague, memories. Soon, I had a growing sense that something was different, very different. It was like being in a dream and finding myself someplace both familiar and oddly unfamiliar at the same time. There was a stripped-down feeling to CPW, as it is now called; what had been cozy and atmospheric about the previous establishment--the brick and floors and long bar--now had the stark austerity of a hard-used nightclub. And indeed, there’s now a piano near the front window, and after 9 or 10 on weekend nights, there’s jazz played. Still, CPW’s new look is more worn-down and hard-core--industrial rather than cozy. This effect is heightened by some truly awful punk/pop art: clumsy cartoons in ugly colors. On the other hand, the tables are well-appointed with fine, thin goblets; silver-plate service; attractive gold-rimmed china plates. And the new chef-owner, Reto Ryffel, has written an ambitious menu.

On our first visit, three of us couldn’t have been happier with our appetizers. I had a subtle and pleasing yellow pepper soup with toothsome little rock shrimp. A Caesar salad was refreshing and enhanced with good Parmesan. Some prosciutto di Parma, with a taste of good olive oil and a small heap of shaved Reggiano, was also delicious.

Next, we split one order of bow-tie pasta with fresh asparagus and absolutely dreamy applewood-smoked bacon. We relaxed. The food, we were now confident, was good, really good. We could be genuinely enthusiastic when our friendly waitress asked how we liked it. As the evening progressed, remnants of the dressed-in-black club crowd trickled in for drinks at the bar or late dinners. Meanwhile, as long as we remembered not to look up at the walls, we were quite enjoying ourselves.

Then came dinner--or rather, the entrees.

One friend had pork and mashed potatoes, which arrived swimming in a purplish-black reduced sauce. Another friend had mahi-mahi with citrus relish, which also arrived swimming in a black reduced sauce. And I had rack of lamb . . . in a black reduced sauce.

“The chef has been looking at the art too much,” said one friend.

The mahi-mahi was a bust; among the three of us, we choked down half of one of the three chunks. On my plate, the lamb itself was OK, if too tough to cut with CPW’s oversized but stylish knives. It was served with sweet potato ragu, basically chunks of sweet potato; and heaven knows what part of the meal was the “Gremmona mustard fruit” promised on the menu--perhaps it was some of the very vinegary vegetables and undercooked black beans. The pork alone, although also unyielding to the knife, proved somewhat edible--once we overcame the visual discomfort of a white mountain of potatoes surrounded by and filled with the dark purple sauce.

Between the grim art and the grim food, I was ready to leave shortly after the entrees appeared, but one friend insisted on dessert, and I’m glad she did--the excellent creme brulee left a good taste in our mouths.

A return visit yielded neither the highs nor the lows of our first visit. The carpaccio with fresh rosemary came with some very nice marinated shiitake mushrooms and not a trace of rosemary; the filet was sliced so thinly, it disintegrated at a touch. The jumbo scallops were fried so that their tops were so very crunchy and peppery the scallop itself became irrelevant.

A New York steak came with a heap of fried crispy onion threads and a black reduced sauce. But, of all the blackness that came to our table, this plate of food was truly tasty and I recommend it. I had ordered the night’s special, a roasted Cornish game hen. Miraculously, it did not come in black sauce, but there were, among some roasted potatoes, bits of broccoli, haricot vert, carrots and a smattering of virtually uncooked black beans. Despite its more colorful presentation, the hen, at $21, was priced far beyond its capacity to deliver pleasure.

Central Park West Wine Bar and Grill, 11604 San Vicente Blvd., Brentwood. (213) 207-9998. Dinner Tuesday-Sunday. All major credit cards. Valet parking. Wine and beer. Dinner for two, food only, $42-$73.