Michael Chow's restaurant on West 57th Street was about the coolest art world hangout in the eighties. Mr. Chow was a great collector, and all the artists flocked to his tables. I remember dining there with Andy Warhol, and I remember the great dinner Jean-Michel Basquiat threw there after his final one-man show at Vrej Baghoumian. It was a final triumphant celebration when the chips were down. One of my favorite Mr. Chow memories was a big dinner Kenny Scharf (who had traded paintings for food) had there when he decided to spend his entire tab in one big blowout--the whole impecunious Mudd Club/Club 57 hip crowd was there, along with our few rich artist pals--swilling Cristal and living it up like there was no tomorrow (there wasn't).

And Mr. Chow wasn't just 57th Street. There were Mr. Chows in Beverly Hills and London, both of which were eminently groovy, art-filled, hiply simpatico establishments. There was Puiforcat silver service all over the place, and leather menus made by Hermès. I remember a Ruscha painting in Mr. Chow L.A. that was supposedly painted entirely with things like Peking Duck sauce and mustard.

The New York place had some ups and downs, particular after the sad death of the lovely Tina Chow, but once the hip-hop crowd got into the place in the nineties it was up and up and up. For several years I was a real regular there as it was the closest restaurant to my house. I also loved the place. Brian, the maître d', was always able to handle the crowd with aplomb, despite some serious hectic rushes by the rich and famous. The food was always tops, the service excellent, and interesting people hopped tables. The only worry I ever had there, aside from possible renegotiation of the tab, was that I didn't want to sit next to anyone's bodyguard in case of a crossfire, but peace always prevailed here. I remember one night during the NBA playoffs I had missed the game because of an important meeting and as I was leaving I just looked at Allan Houston, who was having a quiet dinner. "We won," he said quietly, reading my mind.

The only problem with Mr. Chow was the bill. I often suspected it had nothing to do with what one ordered but with how well the house had done on a particular night. They had a way of ignoring what you actually asked for and then charging you something mysterious involving some sort of prix fixe, family-style formula known only to them. Itemization was out of the question, but if it seemed way out-of-line negotiation was possible.

I recently tried the new Mr. Chow on Hudson and North Moore Street in Tribeca. It had gotten wretched reviews but I was going with an open mind, as an old fan of the franchise. Well, the good news is it's not too late for Michael Chow to change everything. Such as firing the snooty chicks at the door who made us wait for a quarter-hour when we showed up on time and the table we would eventually occupy was vacant, as were several others. After one drink my wife, a Mr. Chow veteran, suspecting a ruse, asked one of the snooty sisters which table we were waiting for and we were seated promptly.

The new Mr. Chow has a patio (loading platform) on Hudson Street filled with tables and a wall of doors opening onto it. The fact that these all open and don't close themselves kept the restaurant at about a steady 80 degrees. The waitstaff was pleasant and professional enough, but what arrived at the table wasn't what we ordered. We got the mystery seaweed we didn't order, we didn't get the filet mignon we did order, and when the almost astonishing tab arrived I realized we'd had a "prix fixe" meal. Because the entire restaurant surface except for the marble floor is lacquer, the acoustics of the place are ridiculous: it was aroar, with much of the roar coming from parties of unaccompanied young men who look like they study Entourage religiously. Each group seemed to have a Turtle and a Johnny Drama, but none of them contenders.

The "highlight" of the evening was when a Chinese cook appeared and made a loud, athletic display of pounding, pulling, and twisting some Mr. Chow noodles. After seeing this demonstration my dinner companions and I all agreed that we'd rather be at Benihana. I wasn't about to negotiate the bill here; I'd rather stay away in droves.

The night before I had dined a block away from my house at the Chinatown Brasserie, a terrific new restaurant where the Time Café used to be that has a fun Big Trouble in Little China décor and a menu quite similar to Chow but better prepared and presented, and far more easily procured. The service there is friendly, efficient, and utterly attitude-free. I will always treasure my memories of Mr. Chow, and I still dig the uptown joint thanks to its seasoned pros like Brian, but I would suggest that the proprietor seriously consider what got him down here near Nobu in the first place and fix this disaster.

Here's one one of the windows of of the Chinatown Brasserie. In the reflection you can see me, one of the few remaining parking lots in New York City, and Robert Rauschenberg's house.