There was not a soul in view on the street. But I knew the Benny whose gaze he was trying to elude: Benny Lai, the affable co-owner and inimitably cheery maitre d' of Vietnam Restaurant across the street. He inspires such uncommon loyalty in his customers that they feel criminally guilty for eating elsewhere.

But Vietnam Palace is not just "elsewhere." To the partisans of Vietnam Restaurant, the Palace is the "other one," a longtime rival so obviously inferior that there is no reason to even visit. Devotees of the Palace, of course, feel the same way about Vietnam.

As rivalries go, it isn't quite the Hatfields and the McCoys. But it's the Vietnamese version of Pat's vs. Geno's - with impassioned camps of ethno-foodies splitting Internet chat rooms over spring rolls and bowls of pho. I've never had so many eager dinner guests (four, to be exact) abruptly back out once they learned of our exact destination.

After several investigative visits, however, I'd have to say it's their loss. The Palace may not, in fact, be better overall than Vietnam. But it is a very good restaurant nonetheless, hardly worthy of the indifference that Vietnam's disciples heap upon it.

Most diners, myself included, were entranced by the physical transformation Vietnam made several years ago when it was renovated from a fluorescent-lit Chinatown joint into a sultry, multistory complex evocative of French colonial Saigon.

Then the Palace two years ago quietly completed its own impressive makeover. Breaking down the walls between its two buildings, the owners, Ha and Nhon Nguyen, created a pleasant open dining room (and upstairs banquet hall) complete with a waterfall mirror, a handsome granite bar, and a curvy, cutaway ceiling that reveals an undulating wave of bamboo.

Vietnam Palace is noticeably weaker on service. The waiters were extremely pleasant, but sluggish and out of sync, bringing so many little dishes of the ubiquitous nuoc mam fish-sauce dip and pickled vegetables to our table, we practically balanced them on our laps. A little common-sense pacing would be nice.

As for the food, it seemed more or less a wash, which shouldn't be surprising given that Nhon Nguyen was one of Vietnam's chefs before she opened the Palace in 1987. Nguyen's cross-street departure over "irreconcilable differences" is what her son, Victor, says is at the root of hard feelings between the two restaurants, though perhaps it's no longer as raw between the second-generation families as it once was. ("We say 'hi' on the street," says Victor, "but it's not like we go out bowling.")

Ultimately, the competition has been a good thing, resulting in a welcome boon of upgrades for 11th Street (nearby Lee How Fook has also upscaled) to answer the slew of newer, parking-friendly Vietnamese contenders on Washington Avenue, like Nam Phuong.

How can too much great Vietnamese home cooking be a problem? Each restaurant has its charms. Vietnam has its barbecue platter, the flaming tiki drinks, and vermicelli bowls. Nam Phuong has fabulous soups and buttery country beef with lime sauce, and the best crepe of the lot.

Meanwhile, I'd come to the Palace any day for a number of its specialties. The char-grilled meats, marinated in a garlicky sweet glaze of ginger, lemongrass and hoisin, are particularly delicious, especially the thin pads of tender beef short rib that I wrap in leaves of romaine with pickled carrots and sprigs of mint. The meatballs wrapped in grape leaves and the flattened skewers of beef satay sweetened with a kiss of honey (but no peanut) were also superb.

The deep-fried spring rolls, served over bowls of rice vermicelli "bun," are probably the best in town, their blistered skins delicately crisped from the heat, their meat-and-noodle stuffings slightly lighter with chicken instead of the usual pork.

I also loved the restaurant's cold salads, especially the raw beef flank steak, which comes sliced thin in a pool of spicy lime juice showered with basil, raw onions and the crunch of crumbled peanuts. The sweet and sour tang of nuoc mam is the main feature of the shredded papaya salads, which are topped with either sweet shrimp or chewy jerky beef.

The standard noodles here were also excellent. A bowl of springy rice vermicelli came topped with char-grilled meats and a side of nuoc mam. The deluxe version of the Palace's pho was also satisfying, with flank steak and crunchy ribbons of tripe floating in a richly steeped beef broth swirling with star anise, coriander and cinnamon. The unusual wide rice-noodle sheets known as rice flake were also great, rolled into a crepe around a satisfying filling of ground pork, sweet onions, and earthy dried mushroom.

Some dishes were just ordinary. The Vietnamese crepe was all sprout stuffing and not enough flavor in the crepe itself. The sauteed needle noodles with pork and shrimp were bland and gummy. The whole striped bass - served either fried or steamed with ginger sauce - was OK both ways, but tinged with the soapy aftertaste I often associate with farmed bass. The grilled lemongrass chicken that I loved one night had a pungent aroma of petroleum on a later visit.

There were still more than enough successes to compensate. Vietnam Palace's salt-battered seafood is spot-on, with a crisp crumb of salty, chile-spiced crust encasing superbly tender calamari cut into pine-cone-shaped spirals, and a plate full of sweet soft-shell crabs that were difficult to stop eating.

The Palace's stir-fried entrees were also full of flavor, especially the spicy ginger sauce (great on chicken) and the mahogany-colored lemongrass gravy that lent sauteed littleneck clams a tangy zip.

Several desserts here are homemade, but they are not a Palace forte - the green tea ice cream bitterly oversteeped and the flan pocked with too many bubble holes from overcooking. I much prefer to indulge in a slow-drip chicory coffee blended with syrupy condensed milk, or one of the restaurant's many milk shakes, sweetened with jackfruit, pungent durian or avocado.

After a meal like this, there's no hiding behind blue lapels, no guilt-driven sprint from view. Perhaps a true eater's loyalties were meant to be divided.