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It's a gorgeous space with wonderfully fawning service. It's a shame the food is so bland.

There are many people – some of whom I actually like – who think Mistral is Boston's best restaurant. These people are out of their minds. There are scores of restaurants in Boston with better food, a dozen with similar or better service, and several with better décor. People who think this restaurant is the best in the city have been lobotomized by the hype and the remarkable persistence of this restaurant's trendiness, which has lasted virtually since opening and through several changes of head chef.

Our waiter is attractive, skilled and well-spoken – though for all his deftness with an adverb he cannot properly pronounce or identify the names of any of the wines I order (“Volnay” becomes “voh-nel-ly” in his argot) – and unquestionably earns his gratuity at the end of the evening. His female counterparts are remarkably scantily-clad (though all in black), which no doubt entices the largely men-with-ties crowd. The scene is powerful and energetic, and the restaurant is as full the moment we leave (around 10 p.m.) as it is the moment we arrive (three hours earlier), while the ultra-trendy bar has easily doubled in population.

The wine list is decent, with many predictable choices (big dollar California cabs, Bordeaux, etc.) set off by more than a few interesting wines, albeit at significant markups. Over a few glasses of fine grüner veltliner, we consider various Cornas and Crozes-Hermitage choices in the $70-125 range before settling on an over-the-hill red Burgundy (it’s a ’98)...which is admittedly our fault and not the restaurant’s. Wine service is solid at the beginning of the evening, but halfway through our main courses I’m pouring the wine myself. A digestif of Scotch is met with proper service (“would you like that neat?”) and brought, per my request, after dessert.

Unfortunately, the food is just duller than toast. Dull toast. Mistral violates a long-cherished rule, chez nous, that we will not dine in restaurants wherein we could have cooked our meal just as well or better (and, in fact, this meal is paid for by my wife's company). My appetizer of Nantucket Bay scallops is almost ruined by an overly cloying sauce (Theresa’s escargot are much better), while my New Zealand venison is chewy (that’s the fault of the freezing, not the chef) and assembled with a clichéd chorus of sweet potato and brussel sprouts (again, Theresa’s Cornish game hen is better, though she claims that it is too frequently dry). Our dessert of “pistachio-encrusted profiteroles” is – tragically – no better than Dairy Queen with nuts and hot fudge syrup.

This is just a dull, dull restaurant both vastly overpriced and incomprehensibly hyped. Nothing is bad, but anyone who prefers this to No. 9 Park has lost his or her mind.

(Though I've been to Mistral many times, this review is based on the only visit under the chef as of November 2005; I don't feel earlier experiences under different chefs are useful...though the general impression on those visits was roughly similar.)