We know better, we really do—but the waitress was so enthusiastic in her seasonal-menu recommendation, there was a fire in the imposing limestone fireplace…and thus arrived on our granite-topped table a bowl of turkey poblano soup, alleged to be pozole-like.

Yes, there were reassuringly large chunks of turkey, but the bowl was otherwise nearly bereft of hominy, and no detectable poblano lent its bite to the salty broth. Even more disappointing was a brace of shrimp and lobster enchiladas with “ancho cream.” The shrimp, said to be grilled, were such puny puppies that they would have fallen between the cracks in any respectable grill; there was little lobster that could be identified as such; and the “cream” resembled nothing so much as chili-powder gravy. You’d think that upsidedown apple pie could save the day, but it only serves to confirm the diagnosis, its soggy sweetness a symbol of a kitchen in need of a little rounding up and herding out.

This is a shame. Yes, the menu may be a High-Noon faceoff of Suburban (the vehicle) cowboy meets not-now-so-new Southwest cuisine, but we have liked plates in the past. Could be we had our first sweet potato fries here, and the corn poblano soup dared to display strips of chile if we recall correctly. Just a suggestion: stop trying to be tony, concentrate on the basics, and give in to the suppressed kowboy karma of the place by slathering around cowhides, saddles, chaps and other, er, artifacts. At least we’d have something to look at.