Chima

When you call to reserve a table for the churrasco meat-athon at Chima in Center City, a phone rings in Brazil.

It's an odd and unexpected transcontinental detour to Chima's corporate call center for that local number to travel. But it's comforting, I suppose, to know that this growing chain of upscale restaurants is so authentic, a reservationist somewhere in Minas Gerais is noting our arrival.

But authenticity, it turns out, is the least of my issues with Chima, which mimics a traditional Brazilian steak-house formula - down to the cheesepuffs, vast salad bar, and tableside skewer-craft of its gaucho servers - popularized by other all-you-can-eat Brazilian steak-house chains like Fogo de Chão.

Chima's big problem is its inability to execute that formula with any consistent skill, which at a minimum of $50 a head, is disappointing. You can't phone in good cooking from Brazil, let alone Fort Lauderdale, Chima's American headquarters, where its corporate chef in charge of quality control resides.

One might hope for a certain value in the prospect of gorging on limitless quantities of grilled beef and salad. But that hope devolved quickly for us into a chewing chore, as skewer upon skewer of jarringly salty, mediocre meats paraded to our table.

Oversalting for the American palate is a common pitfall at churrascarias, where the Brazilian-born gaucho servers are responsible for both seasoning and cooking the skewered meats they carry through the restaurant. But Chima's gauchos were even more heavy-handed with the rock salt than I've experienced. Paired with a penchant to overcook most of the 17 cuts of meat and fish, precious few of these offerings left a good impression.

The best, by far, was the picanha, the classic churrasco cut of sirloin rolled along the grain into a half-moon. Sliced onto my plate, the round of meat was nicely pink and juicy, with a fat-ribboned crust that crackled like a heat-crisped halo.

Virtually every other skewer, though, brought a letdown, with the off-flavors of less than stellar meat that tasted either gamy (flank steak, leg of lamb), liver-y (filet mignon), or as dry as particleboard (parmesan-crusted pork loin). The plain chicken skewers were juicy, but the chicken wrapped in bacon (usually a treat) only amped the salt volume higher. Even a big slab of usually forgiving salmon was so overcooked it was chewy.

Allowing the kitchen more than just salt to season with was just as risky. The pork ribs were slathered in barbecue sauce that was sticky sweet. The garlic-rubbed top sirloin, meanwhile, was embalmed in a puree of allium so thick it sizzled like pungent white foam on the meat and curled my nose hairs before taking a bite. When we did, it was so wrong all four of us at the table spit it out simultaneously - including a neighbor who eats raw garlic daily for pleasure. This was the single worst morsel of food I've tried to eat all year.

My mouth was ringing with the bitterness of a garlic and sodium buzz, and I needed a mid-meal tour of the restaurant to walk it off.

Chima is in many ways a stunning space - as surprising for its contemporary design (stylish wood accents, fire-orange chairs, chic lighting and cowhide-covered ottomans) as it is for sheer vastness, with more than 300 seats carved into a former preschool on the ground floor of the Kennedy House. It recalls the corporate grandeur of a cruise ship or a casino hotel. But it's a huge gamble on red meat, even in a city in the throes of a carnivorous frenzy that will have added 1,000 seats in new high-end steak houses by year's end.

Chima will need to do better if it hopes to compete. It does have the added fun factor of rodizio, the theatrics of roaming gauchos slicing meat tableside.

And there is also a massive salad bar to serve as sort of a bland buffer to counterbalance the intensely seasoned meat. I enjoyed the black beans with chunks of braised pork, dusted with toasted farofa powder.

But mostly, the salad bar was a disappointment, too, an abundance of colorful but flavorless items that appeared to be either straight from the can (artichoke hearts, hearts of palm) or poorly seasoned (tabouleh, asparagus, mozzarella balls). The beef carpaccio had the watery texture of still-thawing meat and streaks of yellow mustard better suited to hot dogs. I also sampled two of the strangest specimens of mousse I've seen - one blue cheese, the other corn - that had the stiff texture of gelatinous salad dressing popped from a Jell-O mold.

My stroll through the restaurant did find one happy stop, at the bar, where head bartender Greg Woerner launched into a fascinating lecture on cachaça, the Brazilian sugarcane spirit that fires up his superb caipirinha cocktails. Chima's good collection ranges from the woody, traditional Velho Barreiro to the smoother modern style of Cognac barrel-aged LeBlon. And Woerner's passion for the drink, doled out in tiny samples, mixed cocktails, and historical commentary, was a pleasure to share.

It seemed to even moderately improve my luck with Chima's kitchen. The bar's limited menu of a la carte nibbles - like the chunks of rare ribeye or bowls of warm cheese popovers served with smoked turkey spread - were more satisfying (and a less expensive commitment) than the all-out fixed-price feast in the dining room.

Unfortunately, Woerner is Chima's corporate bartender, and is scheduled to leave to open the chain's next branch in North Carolina. And the remaining wait staff is not impressive. In a restaurant where their duties are more table maintenance and drink orders than anything else, I spent the night gazing around for more water, staring at crusty plates left over from the salad course, and wiping blue cheese mousse from cutlery no one bothered to change when the gauchos came with meats. We were also charged for a drink we hadn't ordered - a goof that was quickly corrected.

That didn't prevent our server, though, from laying on a sudden burst of personal attention when the bill came. He placed his hand on my shoulder, gave it a soft, icky squeeze, and told us: "Just so you know, cash tips are great because our payroll goes through Brazil."

It is an odd and unexpected transcontinental detour for that local tip to travel. But after so many puzzling and unsavory moments at Chima, why am I not surprised?