The kids are back to playing restaurant over at STK, and there doesn't seem to be a competent adult in sight.

In an attempt to branch out from our familiar haunts, our Thursday Night Dinner Gang (not to be confused with the on-hiatus Wednesday Night Supper Club) decided to venture into the often dicey world of newly-opened restaurants. Los Angeles has no shortage of new arrivals--which is part of the problem. In an industry where barely half of the newcomers survive to their sophomore year, LA's particular track record with restaurant openings is that a troubling number of them don't seem to mind that their run will be short and their closure imminent. In truth, it's hard to open a good restaurant. But keeping a good restaurant running for any significant period requires skill, dedication and a hell of a lot of hard work. So what's a glib, cynical short-sighted owner to do? Sell short, babe. Many restaurant partners (to call them restaurateurs is to give them way too much credit) are perfectly happy to open with a splash, fill the sidewalk with paparazzi and charge the Hiltonistas exorbitant prices for Kobe beef sliders and truffle French fries. Many of the city's fresh-faced restaurants are little more than "smash-and-grab" jobs, designed to rake in profits with substandard product for a very short time, then fold as quickly as they came, only to reopen elsewhere (or even in the same spot) spruced up in a different little black dress, speaking with a new accent and spinning a reshuffled playlist on the iPod.

The STK staff.

I've been to STK and the adjoining bar, the awfully-named Coco De Ville (sounds like a drag queen), twice. Both times, the scene was as sceney as it gets: burly, clipboarded doormen, patrons four-deep at the bar, music too loud for conversation, and enough stiletto heels to aerate a soccer pitch clicking past. Our dinner reservation, made two weeks in advance, was for 9 o'clock. All eight of our party had arrived by 8:50 and were greeted by a quartet of young, head-set wearing host-persons positioned behind a bank of computer touch-screens at the host station. I felt like I was checking in at the W. At 9:15, a lovely young woman with a stressed fake smile stapled to her face informed us that our table would be ready "soon."

Alan, who made the reservation and was springing for dinner, asked, "How soon?"

"We've got some people finishing up, so not much longer."

Tired of the hectic scrum around the bar, we reconvened on the patio, longing for the days when a reservation meant something. At 9:30 Alan went back to the host stand and asked about our table. A different woman--it was very hard to figure out who was in charge--told him quite clearly, that our table, "Would be ready in five minutes."

Five minutes is a tolerable wait, unless, of course, the wait is considerably longer. At 9:45, Alan, normally unflappable, found a man who seemed to be a manager, at least that's how he identified himself when asked.

"We've been waiting for 45 minutes for a table that I reserved two weeks ago. Your hostess told me fifteen minutes ago that our table would be ready in five minutes--"

"Five minutes?!" The manager, a guy in his mid-twenties, seemed genuinely shocked. "Who said that? She never should've said that. I didn't tell her to say that."

In his mind, the issue became absolving himself of responsibility, which is ironic, considering he called himself the manager, when the issue should've been appeasing eight, hungry, tired and normally spend-happy guests. But at this point, we were spitefully not drinking. Here would've been the perfect opportunity to buy us a round of drinks, or to apologize for the uncharacteristically long delay. Any gesture would've been welcomed over his defensively deflecting blame like a truculent teenager.

The conversation ended with not much resolution; the guy just walked off, perhaps to get back to his Xbox. A few minutes later, yet a third hostess walked up with a stack of menus to tell us our table was ready.

She led us to a center booth with eight place settings crammed around a table meant for no more than six. "Is there anything bigger, you know, that could hold our entire party?" Alan asked.

She informed us there was not, without ever losing he sense of smugness that she was doing us a favor by seating us in the first place. Delirious with hunger, eight grown men crammed ourselves into the booth. Adding a chair to the open end of the table, it seemed, would've been too accommodating.

I had a jacket with me, and rather than drape it over the banquette into the lap of the couple eating behind me, or scrunching it up into a tiny, wrinkled knot of corduroy and wedging into the scarce few inches around me, I flagged one of the hostesses and asked if she wouldn't mind taking it for me.

She seemed cheerful enough at the question, but also confused by it, as if no one had ever made such a bizarre, eccentric request. She cautiously agreed and took the coat from my hands, but before she walked away I had the good sense to get her name. I had a sudden feeling that if I did not go to her specifically after my meal to claim said jacket, I would never see it again. Kind of like that stupid, annoying rule in crowded bars where you have to go only to the bartender who you initially gave your credit card to in order to buy more drinks or to close out.

As we studied our menus ("Hurry up and choose. I'm starving.") I noticed a huge table--the best and largest in the restaurant--sitting unoccupied in the corner. A few minutes later, hostess number four ushered a bored troll of a man and his leggy pair of blonde, boobtacular escorts a third of his age to the big table, where the man sat, along with Trixie and Desiree, as I had named them, slurping oysters and sipping Champagne for the rest of the evening. I didn't know who this man was, what or whom he owned, or how much of a vig he was steering out of the STK partners, but it was clear that his name inspired fear and the most obsequious service from the staff that most of the patrons would've been better off bussing their own tables than waiting endlessly for recognition from an employee.

Out table was no different. At no point did the "manager" (still makes me giggle) or anyone else drop by our table to apologize for the inexcusable delay or to even check on us. Rather, our server showed up, steered our attention to the most expensive items on the menu and seemed truly disappointed if we ordered anything other than the bone-in filet ($44) or the New York Strip ($42).

The food, when it arrived, was perfectly fine, which is one reason patrons might tolerate the preposterous service for maybe, oh, say, a month longer than they should before this whole glittering enterprise that is STK disappears into the ether and resurfaces elsewhere with a new one-word name, faux-something upholstery, and a new menu focused on sixty dollar tequila rather than sixty dollar Cognac. No matter what bit of costumery a restaurant like this wraps itself in, without the human touch and a little accountability, children's hour will continue. And adults, sadly, will keep coughing up the allowance.

STK. 755 N. La Cienega, located in the asshole portion of Restaurant Row (not to be confused with the stodgy, out-of-touch section further down the street). Phone number withheld because reservations don't seem to matter. Bring a sleeping bag.