Steel's namesake is sparingly applied throughout the restaurant. The metal almost has to be unearthed from the wood and granite decorative embellishments to be noticed. It appears on a pillar separating the bar from the dining room, which is armored in glistening sheets, and it is applied to the walls in the rest rooms. The massive front door is sculpted from steel and serves as the badge from which the restaurant's name is cast. But steel sneaks onto the table, too. Flatware is swaddled in black napkins--the kind that make it safe for red wine and soy sloppiness--bound with slotted steel hose clamps. Kind of makes you yearn for the day when "Click and Clack the Tappet Brothers" dethrone Martha Stewart.

Two corners of this Gallic-Plano flats hybrid hold urgently rousing, pinkish and fuzzy coiled banquettes that look like curled carrot shavings. They wrap, coddle and shield while inciting bouts of sweaty hypertension. And that's just after a round of ice water.

It takes a stern stomach to face raw fish in the early hours of the morning, which probably explains why fewer seriously hammered people end up at Sushi Nights than at Deep Ellum's other late-night choices. It makes for a quieter, less crowded atmosphere where conversation is possible, the service is excellent, and the food is as delicately presented as during daylight hours. Not ready to take the sushi test? There's also a bar, so drinking can be resumed at a more leisurely pace.

Churrascarias, Brazilian steer-sheep-pig stickers, feature servers dressed in baggy pants and shiny boots brandishing knives along with skewers of grilled meat. They continuously walk around serving slices of these meats until your trousers burst, slapping gobs of tuna fish salad (yes, there is an all-you-can-eat salad bar) from your plate to the chin of the diner at the next table. Most of the grilled meat from these churrascarias tends to be dry. But Boi Na Braza's 19 cuts of meat are mostly juicy and flavorful. And don't forget to sign up for their frequent diner angioplasty program.

It looks like a stage prop instead of a restaurant ambiance trinket. One whole corner of Sea Grill's bar is a sloping bin filled with crushed ice. Imbedded in the ice is an assortment of sea life: baby octopus, clams, oysters, tiger prawns, a pair of red snappers, a salmon, a pair of striped bass and little bunches of golden trout scattered about for color interest. But the most interesting specimens surfing on Sea Grill's ice floes proved to be the most colorful students in this hackneyed school, with deep reds framed with pale gold threads. They had sloping foreheads with snouts barring rows of jagged teeth, resembling a strange genetic collision between Flipper, a parrot and Toto. Those teeth, in conjunction with the droll expression on their--we hesitate to say faces--heads with mouths half open, made them look as though they were about to speak. A manager said they were weasel fish and that their imposing dental work was used to remove algae from rocks and such. But we just like to imagine how swell it would be if that loudly colored fish could curl its lips in a knowing grin. After all, what seafood joint wouldn't kill for a dead fish mascot with a toothy smirk?