A Polished Heirloom

In a moment of lightheadedness, I had waved off the roasted halibut with lobster-flecked basmati rice and ordered the day's vegetarian special. (These dishes are almost always vegan-friendly, free of cheese or cream.) The bowl of thick, squat rigatoni noodles in a mahogany herbed broth was heaped with roasted tomatoes, chewy morels, crunchy pine nuts and fresh spinach.

I was weight-conscious at that dinner because a few nights earlier, I had indulged in an appetizer of plump, golden, pan-seared scallops doused with a gingery cream sauce scented with coconut and kaffir lime. Bob, my friend Lisa and I were sharing a private dining room (the better for intimate gossiping), and after the scallops, we moved on to chef Hahn's red-pepper crêpes wrapped around delicately spiced pork, cool mango and chile-fired cream.

Lisa added a salad of pale green curls of endive, glistening slices of grapefruit, sprinklings of shaved onion and tendrils of artfully sliced spinach with toasted walnuts under a squeeze of citrus vinaigrette. But her main event was a fillet of juicy, expertly grilled salmon lolling atop a bed of soft polenta and bedecked with a clutter of green asparagus tips. I had chosen the one dish that never varies on the Raphael's constantly changing menu: the rack of New Zealand lamb. Hahn and hotel manager Cynthia Savage retired the dish once for a six-month trial period and were met with violent opposition from its fans -- and I understand why, having experienced these tiny, luscious chops. The lamb stays the same, but Hahn now changes the accompaniments: a white truffle barley risotto one week, a truffle Alfredo the next.

Bob was relieved to see that the beef-tenderloin fillet was a constant, too, though its mode of preparation may be haute cuisine one night (drizzled with a pungent porcini sauce and served with creamy layered dauphine potatoes baked with black truffles), more plebian (topped with a layer of melted gorgonzola) the next.

Like the entrees, the dessert selection is limited. I was happy to find that the ice-cold, slightly crunchy chocolate terrine is a regular offering, as is the pile of profiteroles -- airy hollow balls of choux pastry stuffed with espresso ice cream. Alas, I was disappointed in a crème brûlée flavored with vanilla bean and lavender; it was startlingly rubbery under its glossy burnt-sugar crust.

It was at that meal when I looked down and noticed that my silver dinner knife had been engraved with an unexpected hotel name: the Alameda Plaza. The touch was unexpected but not inappropriate: The Pistilli family, which owns the Raphael, had also owned the late Alameda.

"Steal the knife," hissed Bob. "It's a collector's item!"

I shook my head. Postcards, sewing kits and shower caps are one thing, but I'm not walking out with the hotel silver.