Diner Dud

SO MUCH OF life hinges on expectations. This is the main reason eating out can be so hideously disappointing.

Diner 24, a Chelsea newcomer, shouldn't be singled out as the sole offender, but it's as bad as any. Like many New York restaurants with a sleek design and liberally interpretive menu, it's all gloss and no substance. On the surface, the place seems great. A new 24-hour joint in the neighborhood, convenient to the Meatpacking District, the far West Village and a few blocks away from my favorite bar. Check plus. An eatery that serves comfort food with an urbane twist. We're talking stuff like duck meatloaf, tv dinners (which they're not serving right now-no trays yet) and chicken pot pie. According to the buzz, the interior was inspired by Midwestern diners. Whatever that means. With its stone-studded walls and recessed lighting, Diner 24 is more Queer Eye meets the Flintstones than Minnesota truck stop.

Eating out in New York City long enough promotes the development of a fine-tuned bullshit radar. Sure, it's great to know that there is a place that will serve eggs and French toast in the wee hours of the morning. But a restaurant whose sales pitch hinges on chicken pot pie served in a grotto? Take this item, straight from the Diner 24 menu: "Buffalo Chicken Dumplings Steamed Pasta Beggars Purses, Spicy Chicken Filling, Blue Cheese Dressing, Carrot, Celery & Frisee Salad ($8)." I don't know about you, but this makes my radar go beep.

This clever dish was the number one recommendation from our nice waitress. The best thing on the menu, she said. Can't get enough of them. So we order the beggars purses. My sister, with me that night, went to state school and has eaten plenty of hot wings in her day. And I have been anticipating the moment when a restaurant would do something upscale with Buffalo chicken wings. With respected establishments peddling in fried mayonnaise, $50 burgers and Valhrona chocolate sundaes, Buffalo wings seemed like one of the sole untapped resources of New York's trendy kitchens.

We were surprised by how pretty they looked (or should I say "perty"-the poor waiters and busboys are dressed in dungarees and country western-style button-down shirts). Little fire-orange dumplings sprinkled with chopped chives were arranged in a neat half circle beside dipping sauce and a tiny heap of salad. Too bad they tasted like undercooked frozen tortellini. The filling was indistinguishable from the pasta, and the sauce was bland and tasted like it came out of a jar. The only item on the plate with any real flavor was the bleu cheese, but we don't need to order this dish to learn what bleu cheese tastes like.

Maybe instead of calling this revamped diner food, it should be referred to as "reheated tv dinner" or "cafeteria slop." The fish tacos, so flatteringly described in the menu as "seared mahi mahi, roasted pico de gallo, crisp taco shell, refried cranberry beans in a soft tortilla shell" ($12.75), were authentic white trash. A limp supermarket-grade tortilla smeared with a skidmark of refried beans wrapped a (again) supermarket-grade stale taco shell that held nondescript chunks of fried fish. My sister and I desperately pushed our tacos into the stingy daubs of pico de gallo and guacamole that were little relief from mediocre food hell.

And what about that double dose of carbs! One crappy tortilla is enough, but two? I happen to be anti-Atkins, but looking around, I would have guessed I was in the minority. Nearly every table at Diner 24 was inhabited by a taut-skinned, tanned, tight t-shirted, super-fit, matching-outfitted, bleached-toothed male couple. Another bready offender was the panzanella salad with marinated Roma tomatoes, garlic bread croutons, shaved ricotta and basil ($7). The lame crouton cubes outnumbered the tomatoes four to one. Then again, the mealy, grade D chunks that passed for tomatoes weren't exactly a party in your mouth. But still.

Because the cheesy throbbing music was so loud, and because we were elbow to elbow with our neighbors, my sister and I had to shout everything to each other. "EVERYTHING HERE IS NASTY!" "THIS COST $15?" With guys shooting us looks, we quickly gained reputations as the biggest bitches in our row, quite a feat. A cute boy couple seated next to us contemplated the menu as we dug into our buffalo things. "Oh," said the one with spiky brown hair, "those look good." His blond friend sat holding his elbows and stared down at the menu. "Nothing on this menu really turns me on." Whether it was an earful of our delightful commentary or the preferences of the blond, the two ended up leaving before they ordered.

The courses that followed the departure of the old couple and the arrival of a new one didn't do much to change our opinions. The fried half Cornish hen with mini buttermilk biscuits ($15) was a joke. Before you get seduced by the words "Cornish hen," which, as words, are pretty, consider how much meat you are actually getting. Cornish hens are small, and ours was the runt of the litter. Whatever meat there was on the bird was interlaced with lumps of fat. And the biscuits, which were real cute, were so dense that when I tried to split one open, half went flying like a tiddlywink under my neighbor's chair. The only dish that was even passable was the grilled cheese with white Vermont cheddar, tomato and fries ($5). The fries were virginally pale, long, fresh and crispy. The sandwich was over-saturated with butter or something like it, but a slightly soggy grilled cheese was a welcome alternative to what came before it.

Clearly I still hadn't learned my lesson, so I ordered dessert. (I like to call it "giving the benefit of the doubt"). Mississippi mud pie. Can't go wrong, I thought. Well, I was wrong, and it was wrong. A gnarly little wedge of something black that came on the plate can best be described as a pie burn victim. A layer of chocolate something that was black and gooey as tar topped an unnaturally chewy chocolate brownie-ish cake. The underside showed traces of a blackish chocolate cookie crust randomly embedded like pieces of asphalt in a scab. All of this came with three berries and a tablespoon of whipped cream, not enough to take away the pain. The lesson I finally learned? Stick to Florent. o