Only compulsive eating habits could make me return to a scene of such utterly dull food as if to make the mundane seem bright.

If I look at another clichéd dish of smashed potatoes, baby greens, day-boat halibut or diver scallops implying that there’s no other kind, I might just have to contemplate cooking at home for an eternity. At least I’d get what I want. It’s like the house hunter who finds nothing worth the price of entry and settles for building a dream house of esoteric proportions.

Of course what’s good for the goose does not always beget the gander. Solace is often found, I suppose, in middle brow expectations, in which passable fare poses as good eating.

A few nights ago I sensed instantly that as soon as we walked into the Royal River Grille House in Yarmouth that the ensuing dinner would linger interminably in a tasteless triad of courses.

In the past I’ve always liked the food at the Royal River. And why not? Some years ago several key chefs from Fore Street had been snatched up to make this cantankerous heap on the water a destination. The food improved enormously. You could close your eyes and think that Sam Hayward was in the kitchen--or at least a well trained disciple.

The familiar flavors of wood grilled this and that were everywhere. And done well too. Arriving there from the city was like a day in the country to gaze at a tranquil boatyard looking out to the diffident wiles of Casco Bay.

In terms of décor the Royal River has none. With little more than a rough hewn ambiance, this lumbering room resembles a shabbily built mountaintop lodge disparately perched to peer at a valley below. In this case it’s waterfront. And if it weren’t for the wide doors and windows stationed along the boat yard, the panorama would be bleak.

It was my idea to go the other night with friends who joined us that live nearby. My pals Edie and Gary who think themselves critically keen on culinary matters, which they are, were not overly enthused to be there but humored me nonetheless.

When we arrived the hostess was ready to impound us to a table in the side room, a space at which even a troublesome child would balk. No one wants to sit there, least of all me. For one thing, the view isn’t as good. And on the rare occasion that I’ve been caught askew in the back, I’ve disliked it enormously. In fact, whenever I’ve gone there I can almost count on being led to that back room until I protest.

Is it something about my appearance where I have to be hidden in Siberia? I think I can vouchsafe for a pleasing countenance.

This happens all the time because no one ever wants to sit back there, and the staff feels compelled to try and fill up the space.

The restaurant employs a bevy of hostesses who are as able as neophyte nursery school monitors. On countless occasions I've seen a line form at the front desk as eyes search for someone in charge. Nurse Ratchet lurching over the admonished fruit cup would be better suited.

Probably what annoys me most is Royal River's lack of management style. Restaurants without onsite proprietors are an accident waiting to happen.

Very few establishments in our region, except for the best, pay heed to regulars. A warm welcome and an intimate greeting go a long way in my book. Royal River continues to hire cheerless attendants to manage the front desk. Though I must add they are not alone amongst Portland area restaurants for staffing the front of the house with constituents from a conga line.

Public dining spots need someone in charge, whether it’s an owner/chef in attendance or a long time employee who knows the ropes. There’ must be someone to monitor the kitchen, the pace of orders being prepared and making sure that diners are seated instantly and served efficiently.

After all, with $25 entrees you would hardly deserve cafeteria grub and self service.

At Royal River the saving grace is that once you are at table, the wait staff is first rate. Many of them are long-time servers at the restaurant who are affable and able.

What often happens at Royal River is that they’re often short staffed as though management were betting on a slow night.

Still I have forgiven these annoyance when compensated by a good meal.

Last night, unfortunately, did not offer such an option.

The first thing I noticed about the menu was that it hadn’t change in the half year since I’d been there. That’s never a good sign. It’s a bad as wearing the same shirt for 6 months without cleaning it--an awful notion. Even MacDonald’s tweaks the list frequently.

Some of the old dishes still in attendance included such first courses as the duck confit salad; baby spinach and strawberry salad; crab cakes and sautéed mussels.

The entrée list was heavily represented by grilled meat offerings: lamb, pork chops, filet mignon, rib eye, sirloin and hangar steak. Oven roasted and sautéed dishes included chicken, halibut, a pasta dish and haddock.

I started with the duck confit salad, which I’d had many times before because I’ve always liked it. And it’s always on the menu. That night’s version was uninterestingly intense. It’s generally mixed with dried cranberries, cheddar and maple cider vinaigrette. I found no evidence of cheese and the combination of the cranberries steeped in the vinegar tasted more like a frappe. The duck was flavorless.

A new addition (at least to me) on the entrée menu was chicken Kiev, a dish as passé as Beef Wellington--both belonging to a nostalgic camp of entrees best left in the archives.

I ordered it out of curiosity. If curiosity kills the cat, this version of chicken Kiev was deadly. If you don’t remember how the dish is classically prepared let me tell you. Chicken breast is wrapped around a copious amount of herbed butter and sautéed in butter. So that when you carve your first bite a self-basting butter sauce emerges and the flavors can be rather delightful.

Presented was a dried mass of white meat with an odd-tasting butter filling that not only swam across my plate but shared a sea of flavors with an interloping pool of white wine gravy. There was a strange spice that I couldn’t quite make out, too. I shudder to think it might have been curry.

My table mates I think fared better than I did. One friend had the grilled salmon with a soy ginger glaze. I tasted it and found the whole mess too sharp and overwhelming. Each to his own I guess.

Other dishes at the table were the sautéed mussels which were pronounced decently edible; fried calamari, which were fine; a surf and turf of steak and scallops which were fine if one can bear to mix the two worlds. I can’t. The ever present pork chops satisfied one ravenous person’s appetite for sweet meat.

All in all, while the food was indeed dull, but not terrible, missing was the luster that it used to have. I will give it another chance. Any place can have a bad night, like a bad hair day. And I certainly hope that it was just one of those times.

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