It was the summer 1992 and Alfred Portale was known as a chef with some serious chops, already acclaimed for his avant-garde architectural style and his respectful seasonal approach to ingredients. His dining room was a stage for foodies and power brokers. The room buzzed with handsome men in suits holding martinis. I felt so adult. I felt like I was going to be important, like I already was important. But mostly, truth be told, I felt like I was sort of a fraud, living a life I was not really sure I wanted. But that life was taking me to Gotham Bar & Grill, and I was happy. I should have realized then that the restaurant thrilled me more than the law. But I was not ready to see that then. Sitting underneath the cloaked lighting fixtures, eating tall food, all I felt was thrilled.

When I went back last week with Katy, my mind went back to that day, so long ago. But what struck me more than the distance I have traveled from being a young law student to a struggling food writer, was the difference in my perspective. I was so in awe of Gotham then, and now, I was not. Now, I had a critical eye. And that eye, was, well, perplexed.

My experience at Gotham was middling, and it left me pondering what fine dining in New York City is really all about. To me, it is the product of several elements. There is of course, the food. While I love a plate to look nice, I am less interested in showy presentations than I am in proper seasoning (salt and a lemon are items I should keep in my purse alongside my Nano, cellphone, and lip gloss), impeccable technique, thoughtful creativity, and some discernable jolt of passion. You need to taste the chef’s heart in the food. Because when it is not there, its absence is present.

There is also the matter of atmosphere. I am happiest in a room where I don’t have to scream to be heard, where the lighting is flattering (especially now that my summer glow has faded to a dull winter palor), where the music is right (personally, I love the soundtrack at Babbo, don’t like the one at Perry Street), and where the tables are spaced well enough so that you don’t elbow fellow diners when you reach for your wine glass.

It also involves both service and hospitality. A warm greeting, a grateful good night, an attentive and well-educated waiter, and one who can read a table—who knows when to stay away and when to rush in.

And then there is this overriding thing called energy. The room, the food, the staff, the air—there’s got to be the right vibe. That thing we call chemistry in relationships, well, you’ve got to have chemistry with your restaurant.

While everything is technically correct at Gotham, it lacked chemistry. The room is mercilessly cramped, with tables so stuffed together that as we were being seated by our hostess, Katy got lost. We had to hail her over. Smoke signals would have been useful. When we were seated, we were at a deuce that was lit only on one side. When I sat down in the dark, Katy said she couldn’t even see me. I had to lean over into the light so she didn’t feel like she was dining with an undercover informant.

Later in our meal, negotiating my way to the bathroom was almost undoable because of the tight spacing of the tables. I was about to do a running cartwheel over a table of seven, but my cartwheeling skills are, well, not so good. So instead, I chartered a course that led me around a maze of tables and should have involved breadcrumbs. The room is packed to the rafters and it feels too frenetic and too overrun to feel at all enjoyable. Perhaps at the bar that overstuffed feeling is what you want, but to have to stress out about whether you will be able to wind and find your way back to your table after a trip to the ladies room is not what I expected at Gotham. And the food, still strongly American with global touches, was fine, but it lacked heart.

Over a few glasses of champagne for me, and a Gin martini for Katy, we took a look at the menu (which is quite large), and decided on the tuna tartare and the seafood salad to start, a mid-course of pasta, and the duck and the steak for dinner. Our waiter, who might have been mute and invisible because during the meal, he rarely spoke or showed up, offered us a wine list. This list was apparently written for people who can spend an average of $150 on a bottle of wine. There were so few selections in our price point that we decided on glasses instead. (The glass price ranged from $12 to $19.) We had two glasses of Albarino with our first courses, which arrived after a fun amuse bouche of lobster salad set inside a potato chip ring. I could have eaten a dozen more of those.

The seafood salad ($18) was bright and lemony—a tender collection of squid, scallops, octopus, lobster and avocado tossed together in a vertical jumble. The yellowfin tuna tartare ($18), a ubiquitous dish that I thought we should try to see if Mr. Portale could make his shine, was quite good. A tall mound of ruby red dice was amply seasoned with sweet miso, shiso leaf, and a zippy ginger dressing, and surrounded by a ribbon-like circle of Japanese cucumber slices. I have rarely had a better tartare, but what was even more special was the risotto. The rice was chewy but creamy, and it was folded over large (huge) slices of meaty porcini mushrooms, and bits of sweet-spicy lamb sausage. I could taste the heart (and the stirring muscle) in that plate.

Entrees, though, were disappointing. The Thai-spiced duck over jasmine rice in a red curry sauce ($38) was either menued incorrectly or it got the wrong sauce in the kitchen. There was no red curry sauce on that plate and the duck, which was tender and moist, was B-L-A-N-D, bland. I could not identify a single Thai spice on that bird. Perhaps a microscope would have helped. And the steak ($38) was tough to get into. I was sawing away for a while. Once I broke in, though, I did find some intensely seasoned and juicy beef, but the bone marrow custard it was supposed to come with (which was the reason we ordered the steak), was more accurately a mustard custard. It was like someone emptied a jar of Grey Poupon into a ring mold. The onion rings, done in the style of BLT Steak, were presented in a tall puffy stack off to the side of the mustard custard. They were doughy and greasy.

Our waiter, who we had not seen since our wine orders were taken (the service was just odd and non-existent) returned to ask if we enjoyed out dinner. We explained that we could not find the red curry sauce on the duck plate, and asked if perhaps it had been left out. He told us it was there, and pointed to the duck jus. We told him that the sauce he was pointing to tasted like reduced duck jus, not red curry sauce. He didn’t seem to know what to say next, and simply asked if we were done and offered to have our meals wrapped to go. Our entrees were pretty much untouched. There was no offer of something else. (I was stuffed so it was fine.) Katy took the steak home, and we told him they could keep the duck.

Katy and I were in deep conversation most of the evening, but when our entrees were cleared and she went to the ladies room (she made it back safe and sound), I took a look around the room, which was still at full-capacity, the noise level on full throttle. The dining room seemed to be bulging at the seams with large parties, many celebrating birthdays, or anniversaries, and deuces alternately filled with intense work colleagues and couples in some form of love. Everyone was having a great time. The machine was working.

Desserts (all $12) by Deborah Raicicot, made up for the less than stellar entrees. The warm plump crisp was first rate—warm, butter, crumbly, with the right amount of tart from the plums so balance the sweetness. The ice cream sandwich was a whimsical take on the classic. Instead of hard cookies, Deborah uses a moist but firm Devil’s food cake, which she layers like a club sandwich with macadamia nut ice cream. Warm salted peanut caramel is poured tableside over the top. It was great. But the warm fig foccacia with French feta, honeycomb and pine nut ice cream—Deborah’s clever riff on a cheese course—was just off. The foccacia was too hard to cut, the cheese was cold and had the consistency of Styrofoam, and the pine nut ice cream was proof that pine nuts should not be made into ice cream. Pesto, yes. Ice cream, no.

I have thought a lot about my meal at Gotham and how to frame this review properly. I was conflicted. On the one hand, the place is a New York institution. It has history. Admittedly, a lot more history than I have as a writer. Since its birth in 1984, Gotham has stayed a New York favorite. And as my dinner the other night—a rainy Wednesday—attested to, it is not lacking in patrons. Alfred Portale is one of the industry’s visionary chefs. He is an icon and has been a teacher of many of the city’s best.

But despite its pedigree, to me it has become a bit machine-like. It lacks intimacy; it lacks passion, and that element that I crave—chemistry. In that dining room—a majestic space lined in Arbus and Warhol photographs of our beloved city—some fine food is being served. But does it feel inspired? Does it make you tingle? Does it make you sigh? Not so much. There were few fireworks at Gotham. But fine dining, like relationships, is different things for different people. For me, in my food, and in my heart, I want the fireworks. Sure, they may not last. Hopefully, when they dim, they morph into some form of deeper love. But they should last through dinner, at least.

Gotham Bar & Grill is located at 12 East 12th Street, 212-620-4020.

Andrea Strong