Not Enough Horsepower

As I walked into palomino euro bistro, in the heart of Westwood Village, I imagined how the designer must have felt contemplating this huge corner space on the ground floor of a sleek office building. Could such a corporate-looking venue be made inviting? The answer was to hang fuchsia silk curtains at the windows, shield wall sconces with silk Shantung shades and cover booths and chairs in burgundy leather. As the decor suggests, subtlety is not part of the equation at this boisterous restaurant.

The lounge is a sports bar-sized watering hole with large television sets, an ample supply of draft beers and a football field of Spanish marble the color of raspberry-swirl ice cream. That may sound like a college hangout, but the crowd is a mix of generations and interests--grad students, young business people, moviegoers, retirees.

“No reservation? We won’t be able to seat you ‘til 8,” the hostess says apologetically on one visit. Puzzled, one of my dining companions asks the time. Ten to eight. We have hardly looked around before we’re following her to a table beneath a huge copy of a Leger painting. Neither it nor the “Matisse” of blue dancers across the room seem to fit the decor, though they do lend a Las Vegas surrealism to the room.

The food is just as unsubtle. Los Angeles is among the newest of the 13 establishments in the Palomino Euro Bistro chain based in Seattle. Their appeal is as a big, splashy mid-priced dinner destination with up-to-date food. Yet the concept is unclear. We won’t even begin to speculate how the owners came up with the mouthful of a name. The menu seems to borrow from French, Italian and Spanish cuisines, but if it’s truly Euro, where are the references to German, Austrian, Portuguese and Belgian cooking? This food is American all the way: big, boldly flavored, exuberant. On one visit, my guests pore over the menu and, facing the overburdened lists of ingredients, none of these normally decisive diners can decide what to order. One goes straight to the penne with spit-roasted salmon, then changes his mind when he notices it has saffron and lemon zest. Chicken breast with apricot cilantro sauce? Grilled seafood ravioli with brandy, ricotta and rosemary lemon beurre blanc? No takers.

Exasperated, I order a pizza for the table to start. It’s described as thin-crusted Roman-style, and it comes topped with thinly sliced red onions, artichoke hearts, capers and mozzarella that the restaurant takes pains to describe as whole milk. It’s good, but the limp crust makes it hard to pick up a slice. In the end, I eat it rolled up like tarte flambee, the Alsatian version of pizza. “Not what you expected, is it?” our waiter says with an indulgent smile as he picks up the empty plate.

Some dishes are slapdash constructions. Cracked pizza bread crisps are shards of freshly baked thin pizza dough showered with black pepper and herbs. Oddly, they are served with sliced cold Cambozola cheese and a crock of sweet-sour tomato chutney--a weird combination. But it also comes with roasted garlic, which is sweet and delicious and goes well with the pizza bread.

Gorgonzola potatoes are wavy fries drizzled with a mild Gorgonzola. But who could possibly eat this daunting portion as a first course? The staff should warn guests that most appetizers are big enough to share.

Wild mushroom salad turns out to be spongy grilled portabello mushrooms soaked in cheap aceto balsamico. The greens, sort of a winter mesclun mix, taste fine. The Caesar is pretty pedestrian, dressed in a nondescript creamy dressing and adorned with grana shavings the size of Velveeta cheese squares. It’s this kind of deconstruction that doesn’t make much sense. There’s a reason why the Parmesan is grated in a classic Caesar.

Juicy New York strip does have a char, but not the flavor to satisfy a real steak lover. And it comes with horrid skin-on mashed potatoes and enough curly fried onions to feed the room. The sole Spanish offering is paella. Presented in a blackened iron pan with two handles, the long-grain rice is white, not saffron-colored. It’s more a pilaf than a true paella, which is made with short-grain rice.

The service, while enthusiastic, can be spotty.

One night two runners arrive bearing our main courses, looking confused when they see us still working on our appetizers. “We’ll take it back,” they tell us quickly. But when the food comes again, we’ve still got our first-course dishes on the table--no one has cleared them.

After a couple of months, management realized the restaurant had problems and overhauled the menu. Some of the more dubious items, such as cave man-sized spiedini, had vanished, and some recipes were pared down. Sorry to say, the food hasn’t improved much, with the exception of spit-roasted garlic chicken, which now has a crisp skin, and the pizza, whose crust is no longer limp. I try a daily special of striped bass, which is grilled and deboned at the table by a young chef in pristine whites. He removes the head, backbone, fins and tail with two spoons. After all that, it’s a disappointment to find the fish has the texture of wet Kleenex.

A new dish, curry crusted calamari--greasy squid with its ochre-colored breading slipping off--is quite awful. The roasted garlic tiger prawns, one of the best entrees on an earlier visit, must have been dead a long time to have so little flavor. And the mashed potatoes served with them are still gluey.

The wine list is notable for its relatively high markups and absence of vintages. A Regaleali Rosso, for example, which costs about $9 retail, is listed at $28.95. When I contemplate ordering a $72.95 bottle of Groth Cabernet, I better know what vintage it is.

For dessert, opt for the blackberry-cassis sorbet. It’s sweet but not excruciatingly so, and it’s a bit restrained in flavor. The signature tiramisu is terrible, a gooey concoction of chocolate cake, whipped cream and what tastes like cookie crumbs. You wonder if they forgot the espresso. The best is the bread pudding, with chunks of pears and diced bread, baked in the wood-fired oven and served with good vanilla ice cream. I’d order the rustic peach and strawberry tart, again, too, though without the cloying white chocolate ice cream.

Standing at the valet station, I notice almost everyone is leaving with doggie bags. That is the problem. Palomino Euro Bistro is more about quantity than quality. If the owners want to add something to the Westwood dining scene, why not consider doing something radical, such as offering smaller portions and better food.

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Palomino Euro Bistro

CUISINE: Mediterranean with Northwest touches. AMBIENCE: Big, brash restaurant with large bar and enthusiastic service. BEST DISHES: Pizza, spit-roasted garlic chicken, cracked pizza bread, sorbet, wood-oven-roasted pear bread pudding. wine PICKs: 1995 Marques de Caceres Rioja, Spain; 1997 King Estate Pinot Gris, Oregon. FACTS: 10877 Wilshire Blvd., Westwood; (310) 208-1960. Lunch and dinner daily. Small plate, soups and salads, $5 to $14. Main courses, $10 to $20. Corkage $10. Valet parking.