Alas, after a couple of visits to Mr. Brennan's new restaurant in the Benjamin Hotel on Lexington Avenue and 50th Street, I could see why he might actually want to remove his name from the awning.

When his steakhouse opened in December, Mr. Brennan was much in evidence on the premises, and reviews were generally positive about the food, if not the prices. But these days, his stomping grounds seem to be elsewhere. Perhaps he's returned to his first love, Picholine, the great Mediterranean restaurant near Lincoln Center that established him as one of the best chefs in the city. Or maybe he's checking up on the exotic cheeses at Artisanal, the brasserie on lower Park Avenue that he opened nearly two years ago. His chophouse, unfortunately, strikes me as one of those money-making sidelines that sooner or later seem to become irresistible to a superchef cashing in on his reputation.

Mr. Brennan is certainly packing in the customers-many of them from out of town, perhaps even guests of the hotel. Here they are, their jackets slung over the backs of their chairs steakhouse style, their ties folded in their pockets, as they fork out $74.95 apiece for surf and turf, $75 for Dover sole for two, or $38.95 for a porterhouse they haven't a hope in hell of finishing. Am I the only one here who thinks it funny to see the waiters togged up like stewards on an ocean liner, in white jackets with shiny gold buttons, carving hunks of meat on trolleys and serving it to guys in shirtsleeves?

The dining room (which used to be Larry Forgione's An American Place) is cramped and uncomfortable, done up with cheerful red-and-gold striped flock wallpaper, warm cherrywood paneling, brown carpets and pinpoint lighting that hits you right in the eye when you sit down on the navy banquette. "Doesn't it feel like a suburban hotel?" I asked my husband.

"No." he replied, "It feels like a Lexington Avenue hotel in the 50's."

It's noisy, too (and, once again, I found myself seated next to one of those women P.G. Wodehouse described as having a laugh that could open an oyster at five paces). The wine list didn't do much to improve the mood: There's not a whole lot in the low two figures on this boring and predictable list (how about a glass of pinot noir for $18?). We picked one of the cheapest reds we could see, a 1997 Margaux for $40, imagining it had to be some sort of rare find, the sommelier's clever bargain, given the usual price of this wine. We swilled it around and around in the glass ("Give it time," said the waiter), hoping it would open up. It remained like rubber. So we gave it up and got a bottle of Ravenswood zinfandel '99 for $45, which was very good.

The menu is divided into steaks and seafood and takes its cue from Thomas Colicchio's Craft, offering a choice of 12 sauces that you mix and match according to your whim. (And they're free!) To begin, there's a raw bar, with oysters at $3.25 each. For $12.50 apiece, we got the privilege of watching our waiter toss a Caesar salad the old-fashioned way, tableside (the dressing comes complete with anchovies, croutons and a politically incorrect raw egg yolk). He divided the salad into two large wooden bowls. There was enough to serve a table of eight. But after all that pantomime, it was tasteless. One mouthful was enough; we left the rest. The waiter never asked why.

He was probably used to half the food going back to the kitchen (or being taken away in a doggie bag). For this restaurant is no different from other steakhouses in that it's about excess. It's about huge, caveman-proportioned hunks of blackened meat; toast slathered with bone marrow and braised short-ribs that tastes delicious for the first two bites and then makes you queasy; tumblers filled with deviled-egg trifle that's loaded with chopped egg, red onions and crème fraîche and topped with osetra caviar-even four of us couldn't finish that. The potato galette is another odd dish, made with phyllo pastry filled with gluey potatoes and topped with two strips of nicely crisped bacon. It's the sort of thing you imagine starting off the morning before a trek in the Australian outback. I preferred a special of the day, a lovely salad made with strands of seaweed served in a wide bowl topped with uni and osetra caviar.

The main courses are largely unadorned, which means they have nothing to hide behind. One friend ordered the skate, a slice of wing fried crisp. It was perfectly ordinary, served with her choices of truffle butter (which was curdled) and a pleasant, smooth red pepper romesco sauce. The wild striped bass was properly cooked but dull; the olive oil and lemon peel didn't cheer it up much, nor did the anchovy butter. Another friend had the "wood-fired chicken" (a steal at $19.95), but it was mushy. Three puny lamb chops lacking much flavor arrived with a very sweet, sticky mint jelly and a pleasant Dijonnaise. The sauce that came with the steak Diane, which was flambéed on the trolley with brandy and cream, had too much mustard. The best dish was the porterhouse, aged five to six weeks and nicely charred.

In true steakhouse form, there's a choice of family-style side dishes ($12 each), including a giant salt-baked potato that arrived looking like an unexploded bomb. It came with a condiment tray that included bacon and sour cream for those who hadn't had their fill of calories yet. Thin onion rings cut in wide slices were very good, and the creamed spinach, topped with Parmesan, was wonderful. So were the golden French fries.

I liked the sound of the desserts, all 1950's favorites. But the crêpes suzette-flamed tableside, of course-were leathery and sickly sweet. The flaming baked Alaska was fun, but it was filled with ice cream that had developed icicles. The apple pot pie à la mode was inedible, with pastry as soggy as a wet sponge. Did the waiter ask why we'd hardly touched it? No. But the chocolate soufflé with hazelnut sauce was delectable, as was the pecan praline cheesecake, the pecans adding a lovely crunch to the smooth creamy cheese.

It's not just the excess and the waste and the heavy, rich food that bothers me about this restaurant. Of course, it's fun to have dishes like steak Diane and tournedos Rossini once in a while. But the food is overpriced (even for a steakhouse) and mediocre. Dinner for four was just under $500 bucks. For that money, I'd rather have gone to Picholine, where I could have had a really great meal.

–M. Taittinger, the French champagne vintner, on Camembert

"I'm into sharp, aggressive cheeses with hair on their chest," said J. to the man who had wheeled over the cheese trolley at Picholine. "I'm not interested in your mild, soft, I-don't-know-what cheeses." The man, a waiter who was standing in for Picholine's maître fromager that night, was apparently being put to the test. "How many cheeses have you got on that trolley?

"Fifty-seven."

"Any American cheeses?

"Two tonight. Mountain shepherd, an aged cheese from Vermont. Catahoula, a strong cheese from Louisiana."

The waiter set about cutting slices and wedges and carefully arranging them in a circle around a large plate. He put it down in the center of the table.

"These cheeses are mainly full-flavored, " he said, using a rather more refined term to describe their condition than J.'s "hair on their chest."

He began describing them: "Going around clockwise, we have raw cow's milk from Belgium with a beer-washed rind, lightly balanced manchego from Spain, Taleggio, Pavé d'Auge made with raw cow's milk …"

"I thought you weren't allowed to bring raw cow's milk into the United States."

"If it's aged for 60 days or more," the waiter replied, unfazed. He continued to point around the plate. "Here we have a Somerset farmhouse cheese with smoked-beefy undertones, here we have a pungent torta del Casar–garlicky with a truffly flavor on the palate–a Cashel Blue from Louis Grubb in Ireland …"

To go with the cheese there were quince paste, pressed figs with nuts and Medjool dates. We plunged in.

The remarkable cheeses, which are aged in a climate-controlled cave, are not the only reason for going to Picholine. In the past couple of years, the food there has come into its own. When it first opened in 1993, Picholine was a pleasant if not wildly exciting Mediterranean restaurant, one of a handful of good places to eat near Lincoln Center. But now it has become a lot more than somewhere to bolt your dinner before the opera or ballet. This is a restaurant you want to linger in, not for its rather bland but comfortable setting, but for the excellence of its cuisine.

Picholine is named after a small green Mediterranean olive. A bowl of these olives is placed on the table when you sit down, along with a wonderful deep-green olive oil to go with the house-made breads. Terrance Brennan, the chef and owner, produces dishes that are rich, lavish and beautiful to look at, and they have strong, emphatic flavors. He has now cast his net a lot wider than the Mediterranean–and as he has traveled farther, so have his prices.

Apart from a green salad, first courses are now between $14 and $21, and main courses range from $25.50 (for risotto) to $34. Tasting menus run to $65 and $85 per person. A bowl of soup will set you back 12 bucks. At that price it had better be good, and it was. Emerald green and made from fresh peas, it was as thick and luscious a soup as you've ever seen, so delicious that since J., who had ordered it, was not willing to part with more than a mouthful, we asked for another bowl.

Grilled octopus, a Brennan signature dish, was tender and buttery, served in glistening slices on a bed of potatoes and fennel with a delicate lemon-pepper dressing. Scallops were marinated in verjus (green grape juice) with slivers of radish which were slightly peppery but not pungent enough to overwhelm the most important part for me, the sea urchin roe that was tucked underneath.

Mr. Brennan's risotto has been on the menu since the restaurant opened (but not, I'm sure, for 25 bucks). The rice is cooked in chicken mushroom stock and mixed with wild mushrooms, crisp shredded duck confit and white truffle oil. In fall, it is made with pumpkin, in winter with squash, and in summer with corn. In spring, it comes with fava beans, and that's my favorite. It was brought to the table in a copper pot, and when the waiter took off the lid, the aroma of truffles filled the air.

You can also get a whole fish boned at the table for two and terrific soft-shell crabs, done differently every day. There are daily rotating specials of "classic cuisine" such as turbot with black truffles, duck à l'orange or, on Friday, shellfish paella. I usually prefer lobster done quite simply–boiled or grilled–but Mr. Brennan flavored it with rhubarb, vanilla and aged balsamic vinegar. What a combination! Yet it worked, bringing out the subtle taste of the lobster meat.

After the cheese trolley came dessert. White chocolate ("sugared chicken fat" Mimi Sheraton once called it) is not my favorite thing, but at Picholine it makes a lovely, mild panna cotta, sailing on a red pool of strawberry coulis. "It looks like a Robert Wilson stage set," said J. Buttermilk cake flavored with Meyer lemons and served with poppy seed yogurt ice cream and basil sauce was also delicious, as was the rhubarb napoleon, thin layers of crispy puff pastry with ginger cream, rosemary and Sauternes.

And then the cheese. It is a well-known fact that eating cheese just before going to bed causes nightmares. It was after midnight when we finished dinner at Picholine. If any of us had been going to a Freudian analyst the next morning, he or she would have had a field day.

Picholine

* * *

35 West 64th Street

724-8585

Dress: Casual chic

Noise level: Fine

Wine list: Well chosen, with some good choices under $35

Credit cards: All major

Price range: Main courses lunch $16.50 to $25.50; prix fixe lunch $28, tasting menu $33; dinner $25.50 to $34, pretheater two-course $48; three-course $56; Chef's tasting menus $65; seven-course $85

Lunch: Tuesday to Saturday 11:45 A.M. to 2 P.M.

Dinner: Sunday 5 to 10 P.M., Monday to Saturday 5:30 to 11:45 P.M.

* - Good

* * - Very good

* * * - Excellent

* * * * - Outstanding

No star - Poor