Gemma.(Restaurant review)

This new restaurant, set in a boutique hotel along an avenue once better known for flophouses than for fashionistas, has the feel of a soundstage. Among the melodramatic accoutrements--cascades of melted wax, dangling hams and gleaming copper pans, gothic chandeliers--the sense of artifice is so great that one wonders if the massive wooden beams might be hollow, the wrought iron just bits of tin. One recent evening, a trio of young women--long blond hair, clingy black dresses--pulled out a camera and called the waiter over to take a group shot. "Sorry, ladies," he said. "We don't allow cameras, because we have lots of celebrities who eat here, and they get really nervous." A diner, hoping for star sightings, craned her neck. "Is he famous?" she asked, pointing to a raffish young gentleman who was commanding a long table of hangers-on. "He's not a celebrity," her companion observed. "He just thinks he is."

As far as make-believe goes, Gemma offers--with remarkably flattering lighting, comfortable leather banquettes, and a cast of attentive servers--a soothing dose of escapism. And, while food isn't really the point, the kitchen manages to turn out some appealing items. An entree of sea bass, cooked and served on a ...