Survival Skills

Shouldn't have. The fish is four long seasoned ribbons draped over the green beans and bell peppers that seem to appear on every plate. The fish was overcooked, rubbery and lukewarm instead of hot—so lacking in heat that the pear beurre blanc pooled on the plate had entered the early stages of coagulation.

Alaskan halibut on a bed of coarse listless tomato risotto fared worse. The fish was dry and didn't flake. It was almost like forking into a pound cake, except it frayed on the tines instead of crumbled.

The most tragic part of our Prime time was the fall of the sides. The sautéed spinach was soggy, and as we rummaged through it we saw why: It's served in a boat that's an eighth full of water. Asparagus stalks, with deep green tips and waxy white ends, had a strange whiff and flavor of molded plastic. The apple crisp was all apple (limp thin strips) and no crisp, save for the few bits tumbled over the top.

Park Cities Prime has all of the clichés, albeit with a little updating. It has the dark woods, the stone, the handsome wine cabinet, plush upholstered seating and the blotchy smoked mirrors. It has dining on two levels. It has a pianist who plays the mandatory "What a Wonderful World" and a sound system that dispenses the usual Sinatra-Connick tonic between sets. It has an attentive staff, a wine steward and fine wine list from which we plucked a crisp, fruit-affluent Claiborne and Churchill Pinot Noir that should have successfully straddled the steak and fish at our table if the fish hadn't drowned. What it doesn't have are brass chandeliers and plush draperies and rows of black and white photos with scribbles from actors and quarterbacks. But there's still time. If the umami can save it from extinction, that is.

8411 Preston Road, Suite 132, 214-691-7763. Open 4 p.m.-10 p.m. Monday-Thursday, 4 p.m.-11 p.m. Friday and Saturday. $$$-$$$$