House of Toys

Also packing heat is the punchy red-pepper-and-garlic glaze over plump, juicy Szechwan scallops. Ironically, though, the so-called "fiery" sauce that gives the sheen to a clump of stir-fried Asian eggplant (it looks like Bananas Foster) lacks any fire whatsoever; the dish is stranded without flavor, texture or excitement. Garlicky, caramelized slices of Mongolian beef have a bit more kick, draped with limp green threads of sautéed scallions (though the orange-peel version is more tender and succulent).

Patrons who want to spice up any of the dinner offerings (including an oversized bowl of wonton soup, bland but thick with bites of chicken, shrimp and fat, pork-stuffed dumplings) can add spoonfuls of the "sauce" each waiter prepares tableside, splashing in soy, white vinegar, chili oil, chili paste and hot mustard. Veteran servers know what they're doing, but newer recruits slop together a salty, soy-heavy soup that's often inedible, even in small doses.

Moderation should be the watchword for anyone who orders one of P.F. Chang's gigantic desserts (only the banana spring rolls are actually made here), particularly the least Chinese of the lot: the Great Wall of Chocolate. This slab of moist chocolate cake gets a coating of thick, sugary frosting, its six layers rising up over a pool of raspberry purée. Three of us immediately went to work on the luxurious cake, but after thirty minutes and many cups of hot tea, the impressive pastry still looked as tall and indestructible as its namesake.

That giant hunk of cake is just as over-the-top as the décor, the noise level and the pleasurable irony in the artifice of P.F. Chang's, where style reigns supreme and there's often the crackle of sexual tension in the air. The cellophane-wrapped fortune cookies that arrive with the check are gratuitous; at P.F. Chang's, good fortune is all too obvious.