A yearning for simpler times may explain the Beatrice Inn in the West Village, which has been packed to its low rafters since it opened in November. Graydon Carter said that he and his partners in the restaurant, Emil Varda and Brett Rasinski, wanted it to be âa classic chophouse,â a term so dusty that one of the cityâs few remaining chophouses, Keens, now calls itself a steakhouse.  Everything about the place â the burnished paneling; the leather banquettes in law-firm green; the men waiting tables in white shirts and black neckties; the short and to-the-point menu of Hillary Sterling, the chef since February â broadcasts a return to the days when dinner required no explanation. Sorry, Instagrammers, but you will not be posting shots of your steak or salad, because a footnote on the menu reads âPhotography is not permitted.â  It might have added, âPlease refrain from talking about your food,â but thereâs little danger of that.  After eating squishy goat-cheese gnudi that were bursting with the flavor of warm New York City tap water and were buried under slices of prosciutto almost too thick to cut with a fork, only one remark came to mind: âHowâs your steak?â  The steak was no conversation piece itself. A New York strip, it had a chewy band of fat at its edge, as if the meat were wearing a protective latex sheath, and the meat was shot through with gristle. My dinner companion and I stared and chewed and thought for a long time. Finally, one of us said, âWell, it is medium-rare.â  There was nothing to say about a stack of carrots that came with a braised and roasted veal breast except that it shouldnât be possible for vegetables to be both charred and raw. Apparently it is, though, because a steak turned up in the company of blackened and crunchy hen-of-the-woods mushrooms. The desperately undercooked sunchokes with sautÃ©ed trout were something of a relief. They were awful, but they were not even a little bit burned.  For dessert there was crÃ¨me brÃ»lÃ©e studded with dried-out apple fragments that might have come from an envelope of instant oatmeal, and an uncreamy scoop of ricotta gelato on a stiff pool of ice-cold honey caramel with chopped walnuts.  This time words came easily. We asked for the check.  Other dishes were unremarkable in a more benign way. Flattened chicken with crunchy, golden skin and a kind of dirty-blond gravy was easy enough to eat. Kale dressed with lemons, chiles and fried garlic was better than that, and so was a salad of watercress and other greens with shaved radish. The strip steak on a later visit was juicier and more tender.  Lamb porterhouse showered with roasted artichoke leaves was very satisfying once I ignored the grainy, salty sauce of dried black olives around it. So were crisp and fresh fried oysters with smoked char roe, as long as I didnât focus too much on a bitter and blandly sweet citrus purÃ©e. A dessert with fresh grapefruit and whipped cream on top of lemon curd was refreshing and soothing.  But there I go, talking about the food. The thing to do at the Beatrice Inn is to look and listen.  Two longtime staff members at Vanity Fair, which Mr. Carter has edited since 1992, are huddled at a cozy round table. They nod to me because I used to work as a fact-checker at the magazine, drifting away around 1994.  âEverybody is obsessed with Jennifer Lawrence,â the man next to me is shouting. Speaking only for myself, I am more interested in Candice Bergen, who left a few minutes ago. And over there is Charlie Rose and his posse. He seems about to doze off, but he looked that way before he started eating.  Sleep would be challenging. Those ceilings multiply the roar. On the plus side, they make short people look like models and models look like church steeples. Everybody is roughly twice as attractive inside these walls. This might explain why, when the Beatrice Inn was a nightclub known for youthful high jinks, the previous owners had to put up signs reminding patrons that it was not all right to have sex in the bathrooms.  Mr. Varda and his partners put a stop to all that. The drug of choice at the Beatrice Inn is now wine, most of it rather expensive, served with laconic grace by Aaron Zebrook. One night he recommended a pinot noir that took me over some rough patches in my meal, and he also led me to a bottle I drank during the one good dinner I had at the Beatrice Inn.  This was back in January, when the chef was Brian Nasworthy, previously a sous-chef at Per Se. Mr. Nasworthyâs interpretation of chophouse cuisine was careful, smart and refined, although the desserts were still a punt. His shrimp cocktail played gently poached shrimp against a horseradish-chile gastrique that had the lively hot-sweet-sour-salty tension of a Southeast Asian sauce. He baked oyster mushrooms, salsify and spinach under a textbook hollandaise for a clever take on oysters Rockefeller. It was meant to be a sideshow to an over-the-top-rich Wagyu rib-eye for $150, but came close to upstaging it.  Mr. Nasworthy was dismissed a few weeks later and is now the chef de cuisine at Picholine. Mr. Varda praised his talent but said, âhis culinary philosophy did not agree with ours.â  Evidently not. The four of us at the table that night had talked about the food on the way home.  285 West 12th Street (West Fourth Street), (917) 566-7400, Greenwich Village  ATMOSPHERE Like a William Hamilton cartoon of a private club, but with younger men, and women, too.  SERVICE Kind, but not particularly familiar with what the kitchen is up to.  RECOMMENDED Greens; crispy oysters; roasted chicken; citrus cream.  DRINKS AND WINE Cocktails are rejuvenated classics; wines are impressive but expensive, with a few exceptions.  PRICES Appetizers, $14 to $17; main courses, $25 to $45.  RESERVATIONS Accepted by phone, text or e-mail: Beatrice@thebeatriceinn.com.
The owners of the Beatrice Inn aimed for a classic chophouse, with leather banquettes and waiters in white shirts.