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Morton's of Chicago 213 SW Clay St., 248-2100 Dinner daily. Expensive. Kids rare. Picks: Sea scallops wrapped in bacon, lobster bisque, prime rib, porterhouse steak, soufflésI asked the parking attendants if they had ever seen anyone emerge from the restaurant without a doggie bag, and they couldn't remember a one. Nice touches: Strong wine list, especially in Bordeaux and California cabernets; zealously attentive service; handsome room The traditional steakhouse is a male preserve. Burly as the stockyards that supply the meat, assertive as a slap on the back, early steakhouses had sawdust on the floor (to absorb blood and grease) and a rowdy Old West feel. Morton's of Chicago, a chain with outposts in such elegant venues as Palm Beach and Costa Mesa, defies the stereotype--up to a point. With a beautiful room of soft lighting, quiet tones, ostentatious displays of expensive wines stacked on every available display surface--some on stepped-up wooden boxes like an Olympic team at a medal ceremony--and a zealously attentive service of three persons at every table, Morton's represents the new world order in the delivery of beef. I use this term advisedly, for we are in a highly corporate world. The sommelier speaks of his wines as "products"; the manager, opening his 10th Morton's, proudly notes that they all look alike, designed by an in-house team; and the opening steakly spiel is as rehearsed and imperturbably delivered as a telemarketing message. Morton's is as much about Morton's as it is about dining. In the entrance vitrines, posters of Lauren Hutton, Tony Bennett and Muhammad Ali sing the praises of the restaurant. (Are we mortals supposed to be fearful of falling short of such celebrities or impressed that we can join their company?) Inside the front door we find reviews of Morton's from magazines in Scottsdale and Houston, and photographs of distinguished diners, from Jerry Lewis to George Bush. On either side of the vestibule stand a dozen wine lockers with their owners' names on brass plates, looking like so many little kennels; wine to fill these bins must be purchased from the house. The owner's locker occupies the No. 1 slot in each of his establishments, filled with hardly touched bottles since he makes only a ceremonial appearance at any given restaurant. Morton's name is self-referentially etched across the bar windows five times. Soon after being seated, you are regaled with a six-minute speech in which a waiter demonstrates from a trolley nearly every item on the menu--and not merely each plastic-wrapped steak, veal chop and 4-pound lobster. He even thrusts forward a giant potato like a trophy from the earth; he's a stud with a spud, or perhaps a wizard, pulling broccoli and beefsteak (what else?) tomatoes out of his hat. This theater comes at a price. On the extraordinary wine list, crammed with splendid cabernets and Bordeaux (pinot noir has not sold well), 26 bottles list for more than $100. Four of these exceed $400, and a Jeroboam of Bordeaux goes for $2,500. The porterhouse and New York strip, each bulking out at 24 ounces, ring in at $31. I asked the parking attendants if they had ever seen anyone emerge from the restaurant without a doggie bag, and they couldn't remember a one. As with its rival up the street, Ruth's Chris, everything on the menu is à la carte, and even with a modest wine a full dinner for two will easily come to $160. If you crave lobster, at $20 a pound the 4-pounder alone will set you back $80. The appetizer menu is mostly straightforward, with a no-nonsense shrimp cocktail, oysters and smoked salmon. A perfectly dressed iceberg and romaine salad may be the sensible way to begin what will be a filling dinner, but two items are unusual and well worth having. The rich and creamy lobster bisque, while a tad salty, is silken and unctuous; it's a soup that seldom appears locally and a modest way to get that valuable crustacean. The broiled scallops wrapped in bacon have a wonderfully smoked flavor, crunchy texture and a deep-sea taste that plays beautifully against the pool of apricot chutney. Sautéed assorted wild mushrooms come loaded with garlic and a bit too much oil, but they're meaty, almost like a platter of escargots. Beef reigns, of course. The porterhouse is spectacular, so soft and buttery it can almost be cut with the proverbial fork. I wanted to finish the entire pound and a half, so relentlessly delicious was it, but relative sanity prevailed as I imagined leftover steak and eggs for breakfast. The other extraordinary meat is the center-cut prime rib, a monster slab of equal tenderness and flavor so intense that the accompanying horseradish seemed a distraction. Because the daily supply is limited and runs out early, it's wise to pre-order it when making your reservation. The rib-eye and the New York cuts are perfectly fine but can't hold up to my first two choices. If you crave veal, be sure to ask that the chop not be cooked "Sicilian" style, the house way, for it ruins a fine piece of meat with its dreadful crust of bread and Parmesan. The potato skins are banal, something you might expect at a sports bar, and the Lyonnaise are only fair, the onions slightly burned. But the hash browns are terrific, more like a well-executed potato pancake; for a moment I was so much in latke-land I almost asked for apple sauce, but the horseradish went surprisingly well with the potatoes. It's too bad a side of spinach is sautéed with mushrooms when creamed spinach would hit the mark, but someone has made a corporate kitchen decision and will not be dissuaded. Ordinarily I would never order a tomato this time of year, but our waiter assured me that their Woodburn, Ore., hothouse variety was memorable; it was, but only for its mealy, dry and tasteless quality. It is difficult for chain restaurants to attend to seasonal and regional variations, and diners suffer the consequences. Desserts are decent and echo both the traditional (New York cheesecake) and the tropical (Key lime pie); but the soufflés, especially the Grand Marnier, top them all. The cumulously light creations, served for two, must be ordered at the start of the meal. All the hype about Morton's coming to town echoes Portland's penchant for giving standing ovations to any musicians ending their performance on a crescendo. It's good, but it's not that good. Ruth's Chris sponsors Rush Limbaugh; Jerry Springer might be the right choice here. Morton's advertises in airline magazines, suggesting that many if not a majority of its customers are out-of-towners on expense accounts. It remains to be seen if Morton's will command a loyal local following of the kind that has long sustained the Ringside. For now it is riding the wave of machismo redux, but with a touch that is trendily gender-neutral. (To Morton's credit, there is no cigar room.) On one hand it's a shame that Portland appears more excited by a national steakhouse chain than by the highly skilled cooking of its own splendid chefs; on the other hand, the beef here is truly special, and if you don't mind an over-earnest, over-hyped and self-conscious enterprise--and you love good meat--you will have a satisfying Neanderthal dinner in this neoclassical cave.
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