A stylish look is not matched by food
LEXINGTON -- When last we visited this 1980s manse with its own pond (and fountain) out front, it was the Hartwell House, and we were smitten with the food by chef-consultant Thomas John of Mantra fame. The decor, on the other hand, looked like something Carmela Soprano might have chosen, and then not kept up.
Three years later, we recognize the majestic exterior, but inside we can't even remember what had been where. Millions of dollars in renovations will do that to a restaurant, and when it's 15,000 square feet, the difference is that much more dramatic. To become Max Stein's American, the interior has morphed, gorgeously, into a hip take on a 1940s supper club, all wood and leather and glass and brass.
It's a nod to the kind of place you may remember going to as a kid, where everybody got dressed to the nines, dinner was an event, and a larger-than-life character was behind it all. The night we settle into our table at Max Stein's, people are dressed to the fours or fives at best, in polo shirts, khakis, and boat shoes, and it turns out that Max himself is a fiction. But no matter. We're determined to make an event of it anyway.
As `` 'Deed I Do" plays overhead, we order sidecars and Manhattans from our waiter, Alex, then dive into the menu and get some apps ordered right off the bat. When there are such we-thought-they-were-dead dishes as oysters Rockefeller, clams casino, and escargot to be had, seared ahi tuna can wait. But first, a question: What's this ``sauce Mercedes" that comes with the calamari and the crabmeat cocktail?
Alex flips through his little notepad to find out. He knows that it was invented by the restaurant -- much in the way that the place invented Max, who's no more than a name and a good story on the website. (Which even quotes his ``maxims," including ``The right wine is the one you enjoy" and ``Food first. Business later.")
Sauce Mercedes, Alex says, is mayonnaise, ketchup, and Armagnac. A spiked Russian dressing seems a bit simple to earn the name of one of the world's most elite cars, but we're in the spirit, so we'll bite.
Do we enjoy most of what we taste in this first round? 'Deed we do. So what if a couple of the jumbo shrimp aren't completely deveined. They're fresh and not overcooked, which is a rarity. We've had better clams casino in New Orleans, but we've had much worse in Las Vegas, and what could be too bad about bivalves topped with bread crumbs, bacon, and butter? The calamari isn't exactly crispy, but its tenderness more than makes up for it. And spiked Russian dressing ends up being reasonably addictive.
For entrees, we go for what we figure would be Max's strong suits: steak, veal, and the signature dish, called lobster Max, which for $49 promises fresh shucked lobster sautéed in a champagne caviar sauce with herb risotto. In other words, opulence.
The rich, marbled Delmonico (rib - eye) arrives more medium-rare than the requested medium, but we'd rather err on the side of bloodiness any day. Its accompaniments, including a gloppy gravy (excuse me, demi-glace), are ho-hum. ``Veal Stein's," too, needs more seasoning, and we could do without the overcooked lobster on top, but the veal itself is tender and juicy.
All that is a pleasant dream compared to the lobster Max. At almost 50 bucks, the dish should do a little dance, if not sing, but if this poor creature could let out a sound it would be groaning at its fate. We certainly groan at ours, which requires us to abide inedible saltiness and downright chewy lobster meat before setting down our forks and knives. Alex can't help but notice our grimaces, and we can't help but come clean about our complaints, and send it back.
Alex, gracious and apologetic, returns with bad news: The kitchen, he says, is fresh out of the lobster dish, so they can't give it another try. (Later, we find out that the restaurant has already changed chefs, which may explain the disappointments.) Rather than order a replacement, we sip on our wines -- not the $18,000 double magnum of a 1982 Chateau Mouton Rothschild, by the way -- and figure we still have plenty to eat. Even if that does include a side of creamed fire-roasted corn into which a cook apparently spilled a few tablespoons of ground nutmeg. Besides, dessert awaits.
It's not exactly the meal-redeemer we hoped for. A little apple pie's flaky, buttery crust and soft-but-not-mushy apples add up to satisfaction. But cold and coagulated fudge ``sauce" put the kibosh on our enjoyment of the banana split.
By the end, we're in desperate need of Max, who in our imagination seems to know just what to say to put things right. Once back in the office we pull up the website and look over his ``maxims" again, and one in particular jumps out: ``You can fool your heart but not your stomach."
Max Stein's American , 94 Hartwell Ave., Lexington, 781-402-0033, www.maxsteins.com. Entrees $16-$49.
(Editor's note: On June 23, the Sauce column in the Weekend section featured Max Stein's American restaurant in Lexington and discussed its food preparation. But according to the restaurant, the writer had visited before a recent change in chefs. In fairness, the Globe should have withheld publication of the column and asked the writer to revisit the restaurant for an assessment of the dining experience under its new chef.)
