March 28 (Bloomberg) -- Restaurants rarely survive the loss of those who have nurtured them, which is why I expected little to be left of the 21 Club.

The founders, a couple of cousins with speakeasy aspirations, have passed away. They were followed by namesakes just as beloved. They're gone, too.

Yet, gratifyingly, 21 Club carries on, not just symbolically but convincingly.

For nearly 80 years, this was the most New York of New York restaurants, at least for the well-fed, the well-bred and even the well-read -- people with John Cheever novels in their libraries.

Located at 21 W. 52nd St. in three connected townhouses, adorned with tiny jockeys outside and hanging toys inside, the restaurant has always been about money and power.

It remains so. On a recent Friday night, Ross Perot and Leslie Moonves (CEO of CBS) were in residence. The next night, former New York Governor George Pataki sat across from me.

It has also been about solicitude. It remains that way.

While I understand why patrons might miss the old guard -- for that matter, the entire staff misses the Kriendlers and the Berns -- the newer generation (not so young anymore) understands precisely what 21 represents.

Ties carefully knotted. Greetings warmly expressed. Traditions meticulously maintained. Even the customers behave impeccably. Perhaps credit belongs to the rule mandating coats and ties at dinner, basically church attire these days.

Old-Fashioned?

The food matches the ambience. Two of my guests made essentially the same comment: ``Old-fashioned.'' I shook my head in disagreement. ``Old-school,'' they amended, and they were right.

Expect to pay. A small, ordinary Caesar salad listed under 21 Classics is $18. Risotto topped with squab listed under Main Courses cost $39. The rice didn't remind me of Italy, although the chunks of squab were meaty and succulent.

A friend passed on what a former 21 head chef had told him about taking care of customers: ``You give them what they want. They want a tuna sandwich, you grab a can of tuna, make them a sandwich, charge them $42 for it, they don't bat an eye.''

The waiters ask what you want. Tell them anything. I kept asking for dishes to be split. They never batted an eye.

The only complaint came from one of my female guests who looked astonished as she said to me, ``The staff only talks to you. The waiter gave you the menu first. This is the most men- first place I've ever seen.''

She also griped that most of the customers looked like Dick Cheney.

Medieval Sommeliers

The sommeliers wear tastevins, those funny little silver- metal cups that look like ashtrays. That's old-school. They actually use them to taste wine. That's medieval.

I could not have been happier reading the wine list, which appears thoughtful and comprehensive. Half the bottles I ordered arrived with the wrong vintage date. Not so good.

The chef since last year is John Greeley. Unlike the other 21 chefs of recent decades, you might not have heard of him. The brand-name cooks -- Alain Sailhac, Anne Rosenzweig, Michael Lomonaco and Erik Blauberg -- are gone. If the great Sailhac couldn't turn this into a four-star place, nobody could.

It's the wrong venue for fancy food. (Remember Rosenzweig's 21 Burger with a chunk of frozen herb butter inside? Sometimes it gloriously melted, sometimes it disastrously did not.)

Greeley's burger is oddly spiced, not classic at all. I tried figuring it out. Lower East Side Burger (think pickles) is the best I could do. It's helped immeasurably by the 21 sauce, which tastes like Heinz ketchup with a dash of horseradish, and by a side of pommes souffles, served in a silver dish.

Potato Cushions

If you eat nothing else here, don't miss those hollow little potato cushions. They evaporate in your mouth, like cotton candy. They've been on the menu for about 60 years. Practice has paid off.

Pommes souffles should be a signature dish. For that matter, so should the appetizer of beef carpaccio topped with a single deviled quail egg (I might pay $42 for a plate of those), the juicy veal chop a friend described as ``buoyant'' and the strawberry sundae.

If you have childhood memories of sundaes served in too- small, tulip-shaped bowls, ice cream slipping over the sides, you will want this sundae. The whipped cream is weighty, as it should be.

That's not to say I didn't have problems with the cuisine. Two big ones.

The steaks aren't first-rate. A sirloin was of decent restaurant quality, although it was neither aged sufficiently nor succulent. A filet mignon was exceptionally dreary, even for this dreary cut. The steak Diane came in an astonishingly salty sauce.

Disappointing Sides

Accompaniments are the real disappointment. They sound great -- who wouldn't want ``black trumpet mushrooms, stone-ground corn, crispy onions, blue cheese and cognac reduction''? Somehow, even the most complex concoctions add up to little.

Whenever possible, opt for veggies in their primal form. Usually that means haricot verts, stacked. They're fine. So are the mashed potatoes.

I don't believe 21 ever looked better. It glows. The bar room downstairs still has those famous hanging trucks, helmets and other bric-a-brac. The little lanterns are the kind used by Captain Hook to imprison Tinker Bell in Disney's ``Peter Pan.'' The tables, topped with red-and-white checked tablecloths, are tiny and close together.

Trapped at Table

I have one friend who won't eat in this room, claiming he becomes ``banquetted,'' trapped indefinitely on a long bench.

Second-floor dining could not be more dissimilar in style, although the food is precisely the same. A room originally intended for special events is now called the Upstairs at 21. The reservationist calls it ``intimate and romantic.'' It's neither, but it's fine.

This room has high ceilings, taupe banquettes, much larger tables and huge murals (circa 2002) of Olde (circa 1935) New York. It doesn't feel New York; it feels like a study in pastels. Service, by one young fellow, is courteous, expert and not remotely olde.

One of the people I brought to dinner, a former regular, ordered the perfect meal: carpaccio, veal chop, strawberry sundae. He seemed to know what he was doing, even though he hadn't been back for two years.

When he walked in, after all that time, the gentleman at the door greeted him by name.

The Bloomberg Questions

Cost? Prices range from $12 for cold Senegalese soup to $45 for the sirloin, filet mignon or veal chop. A tasting menu is $85.

Sound level? A persistent and noticeable buzz downstairs, much quieter upstairs.

Date place? The bar room is crowded, warm, cosseting; upstairs is cool, correct, safe. Downstairs is more romantic.

Inside tip? A pre-theater menu, served before 6:30 p.m., costs $40 and comes with six hours of free parking, valued at $40. Quite a deal.

Special feature? You'll be offered a tour of the wine cellar with its famous Prohibition-era, almost 5,000-pound door disguised as a brick wall. Ask to see the second floor instead. The private dining room is museum-quality, and the artwork a history lesson.

Lunch? Yes.

Will I be back? Sure. It's more welcoming than ever to outsiders like me.

ßßßß 21 Club is at 21 W. 52nd St., Manhattan. Information: +1-212-582-7200 or http://www.21club.com.

(Alan Richman is a restaurant critic for Bloomberg News. The opinions expressed are his own.)

To contact the writer of this story: Alan Richman at thecritic@optonline.net.

Last Updated: March 28, 2007 00:12 EDT