A Franco-Russian souvenir

Sorting through old boxes, I came across some photos I’d taken years ago of Place de la Madeleine in Paris. The pink marble columns of the church against the sullen grey sky reminded me of the day I’d taken the photo from the windows of Caviar Kaspia. At a time when I had hardly any money, sitting upstairs above the shop and feasting on blini and caviar was a big indulgence. I loved the little old-fashioned rooms decorated with paintings of Russia in the snow, the courtly waiters who filled tiny icy glasses to the very top with vodka, the appreciative murmurs of the elderly Russian expatriates who flocked there in the afternoon.

The closest equivalent in Los Angeles, I suppose, is Diaghilev, the improbable restaurant in the Wyndham Bel Age hotel. I used to go occasionally with a couple of girlfriends and indulge in vodka, pelmeny and chicken Kiev, while a Russian actress sang mournful love songs from the 1920s and waiters with sad Baryshnikov eyes hovered. The room was always so dark, we gathered only a vague impression of etched glass and ornate flourishes, just enough to fuel the fantasy of being in Russia.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to revisit Diaghilev. With all the trendier places in town, it’s not someplace that seemed likely to be mobbed, even on a Saturday night. I thought we’d be safe if we popped in without a reservation after 9. Wrong.

In the foyer of the hotel, which has seen better days, we follow a crew of kids in mohaw aks headed for the elevator. The restaurant is across from a tacky antiques store that’s going out of business. There are only a couple of people in the bar and no one at the maitre d’ station, so we go into the dining room. We’re peering into the gloom to see if there’s an empty table, but before we manage to complete the survey, a figure in black who bears a passing resemblance to Peter Lorre comes rushing toward us like a bat from a cave.

“Impossible! Impossible,” Dimitri Dimitrov, Diaghilev’s longtime maitre d’hotel, imperiously informs us, practically shooing us out of the room. He adds, on a kinder, note, “Don’t feel bad, don’t feel bad. We turn away hundreds! Try Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday.”

Hundreds?

With three friends and a reservation, I return on a weeknight to find the dining room half empty. But without a crowd all dressed up for a Friday or Saturday night on the town, the atmosphere isn’t exactly festive. And as we settle into our table, we can’t help noticing the lugubrious decor. What is that -- etched wild geese on the mirror across the room? It’s so dark, it’s hard to get more than a vague impression -- gilt framed paintings, heavy drapes, tchotchkes. I suspect this is not a dining room you’d want to see under the full light of day.

The most distinctive element is the long-stemmed red rose in a crystal vase on each table. They’re genetic freaks, fully a yard tall. Just as we’re wondering how they keep them from toppling over -- museum wax? -- the maitre d’ appears with the solicitous explanation that they fly the roses in from Ecuador three times a week. Ecuador?

Host with the most

Diaghilev could easily double for a fancy restaurant in Moscow during the Cold War. Or New Jersey, according to one of my guests, who should know. In the corner of the dining room, a harp-piano duo begins to play, the pianist turning the pages of her music under the light of a cheap drafting lamp. For some reason, the piano has been draped in brown velveteen. Despite the Las Vegas lounge standards they’re playing, you can tell the harpist, especially, is wasted on the material.

“One of the 10 best in the world,” Dimitrov whispers. “She used to play with the Bolshoi theatre orchestra.” Improbable enough to be true. Dimitrov is such a fixture at Diaghilev, he’s given equal billing on the menu with chef de cuisine Dennis Burrage. He’s so impossibly suave, it’s alternately ingratiating and irritating. But after a while he begins to grow on you because it’s clear he cares so very much about the restaurant.

The service is mannered and precise. A waiter sets a series of heavy cut-glass decanters at the end of our table. May I offer you one of our homemade flavored vodkas -- orange, lime, tea and/or black pepper? And pours us a thimbleful of whichever we want to try. It’s a lovely welcoming gesture. Only later do we find out they’re not complimentary but an $8-a-pop hustle.

The Franco-Russian menu has barely changed since I was last there, but the cooking certainly has. What I remembered as competent, if not terribly exciting, is now something else entirely. Our amuse is a silver-dollar-sized blin, stiff and cold, with a dab of creme fraiche and a sparse sprinkling of fishy salmon eggs. Another amuse, a prettily pleated pirogi that tastes of beef and mushrooms, is delicious. That and a delightful chilled borscht laced with shoestrings of yellow beets and garnished with sour cream and chives are the high points.

Eggs “Maxim” is three eggshells filled with tasteless, overcooked eggs topped with salty black caviar, probably paddlefish. Stuffed quail looks positively anatomical, decorated not only with an orchid but also with a fig cut into petals that sprawl suggestively on the plate. For all that, the taste is incredibly bland. Pelmeny -- Siberian ravioli -- are decent, though the veal-and-duck filling is gritty.

The main courses are all pretty dreadful, except for the straightforward veal chop with fire-roasted peppers. My sturgeon, decorated inexplicably with salmon eggs, not sturgeon caviar, is overcooked. So is the chicken Kiev, which arrives, disappointingly, already sliced so you don’t get the surprise of the butter spurting from the breast. A heavy Port sauce overwhelms any delicacy it might have had. Wild duck en croute is served with all the pomp and circumstance of old school continental. It comes on a white porcelain duck-shaped plate with the duck’s head turned back over the sliced supreme. Black truffles, already out of season, don’t help much. And almost every dish reeks of white truffle oil applied with the abandon of a ‘50s teenage boy splashing on the after-shave.

Caviar with fixings

By the time the dessert cart rolls up, my doctor guest can’t help noting it looks like an iron lung. Enough said. The creme brulee tastes like a packaged pudding thickened with flour. The Russian cheesecake is gooey where it should be dense. When the waiters parade out with the second birthday dessert that night, we realize Diaghilev is there for the special, romantic evening.

I decide to return for the chef’s prix fixe tasting menu at $160 for two. But first I want to try the caviar service. I order osetra, served directly from the one-ounce glass jar, $80. This time the blini are fresh and warm. The caviar comes with all the fixings you could possibly want. But I have to say it was underwhelming; it didn’t have much flavor and lacked the finish. It couldn’t begin to compete with the quality of fish eggs served at Caviar Kaspia, a direct importer of caviar, in Paris. Or with the superb caviar I’ve had recently at Patina.

The tasting menu is a huge disappointment, except for a lovely veloute of wild mushrooms, garnished with fried tarragon leaves. Again, the truffle oil after-shave. Suffice it to say we go home hungry. And when a meal here costs practically as much as at Bastide, that is not a good thing.

Surely, the kitchen can to do better than this overpriced travesty of Franco-Russian cuisine. Pomp and circumstance aren’t enough to overcome poorly cooked, silly preparations. And dousing dishes in truffle oil doesn’t help. Here’s one of the great neglected cuisines just waiting for someone to give it due respect. With the campy appeal of the setting, it’s a lost opportunity.

*

Diaghilev

Rating: 1/2*

Location: Wyndham Bel Age hotel, 1020 N. San Vicente Blvd., West Hollywood; (310) 854-1111; www.wyndham-belage.com

Ambience: Franco-Russian hotel restaurant with musty decor that include a long-stemmed rose on each table, velvet sofas, yards of mirrors -- and a skilled piano-harp duo playing treacly standards. Maitre d’ Dimitri Dimitrov is the heart and soul of the place.

Service: Waiters in Cossack shirts are solicitous and professional.

Price: Caviar, $55 to $140; appetizers, $9 to $32; main courses, $28 to $48; desserts, $8.

Best dishes: Chilled yellow beet borscht, caviar service, Siberian pelmeny, “cappuccino” of wild mushrooms, broiled veal chop “Mr. B.” Balanchine.

Wine list: An uninspired selection of California wines with some youngish Bordeaux and Burgundies, plus a single Georgian entry. Corkage, $15; old vintage bottles, $20 to $25.

Best table: One of the tables for two with velvet sofa.

Details: Tuesday through Saturdays from 6:30 to 10:30 p.m. Full bar. Valet parking, $2 for the first two hours; $3 for each additional hour.

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.