Calvin Trillin once famously said “I never eat in a restaurant that’s over one hundred feet off the ground and won’t stand still.” Chart House is 550 feet above terra firma and it rotates with Gallilean regularity. But if pressed, we’d allow as how ascending for drinks and dessert wouldn’t be totally toxic. The bar area doesn’t spin, leaving that to over-indulgers. The prickly pear margarita is neon pink, it’s very big and pretty strong—and only $5 at happy hour. The Godiva-infused “Chocolate Lava Cake,” despite being a cliché, is also not bad.

But no, we had to do more and were even concerned about being underdressed in cute jeans, nice tops, and snazzy (read: painful) shoes. But, of course, we were shown up by someone in cargo shorts and what appeared to be an over-21 paper bracelet from the night before. The elevator ride is cool, with a great view, but the cab smelled like dead turtle. Seriously. Our Prime rib sliders were only decent—the beef was under-seasoned, advertised horseradish cream was nonexistent, caramelized onions lacked punch, and Monterrey Jack cheese only added greasy heft. But the package was elevated a wee bit by dipping jus—salty and meaty. The shrimp and crab fondue, on the other hand, was a comfort food dream—its Oaxaca cheese came across as pure cream, garlic crostini were more like toast points, and shrimp and crab were buried beneath. But we ate it all, namely for the cream content, and to fortify ourselves against the return turtle.