Mr. Edison is flashy and ambitious. Too bad the cooking and service are dim

There are ghosts rumbling through the rafters at Mr. Edison. And I’m not sure they’re happy.

So much energy — both living and remembered — pulses through this dramatic two-story restaurant inside the landmark Bellevue hotel that, as we follow a hostess in what looks like silk pajamas up the long staircase to our table on the mezzanine, the ceiling panels appear to explode with a mirrored tableau of reflected lightning bolts. A chandelier of suspended Edison bulbs showers the plush booths below in a cascade of frozen sparks while a 12-foot brass Ferris wheel nearby cycles slowly over the bar, dangling some of the world’s most extravagant bottles of booze in its hydraulic glass cages.

Am I the target audience for a $350 pour of the Louis XIII “on rotation”? Definitely not. But Mr. Edison has obviously found them, given its guests supposedly go through a bottle a week of the famed cognac (which retails in Pennsylvania for $5,300).

This carnival of pomp and perpetual motion is overwhelming to take in all at once, along with a live jazz band playing to a crowd tightly cinched into formalwear and glittering jewels. The spirit of Thomas Edison, who in 1904 helped electrify this grand old hotel, would no doubt be moved by this namesake tribute from owner Jeffrey Chodorow, the pioneering restaurateur with a hand in more 60 restaurants, including China Grill and Asia de Cuba.

While those two stars of late 20th-century dining in New York (and Miami) were trendsetters for the eater-tainment fusion movement, Mr. Edison is a decidedly nostalgic throwback to a 1940s-style supper club. It’s built around updates to classic Philly foods, from fried oysters and chicken salad zapped with kimchi to more dutiful recreations of cakes from Old Original Bookbinder’s and the Frog.

For Chodorow, 76, who studied at Wharton, Mr. Edison’s food is a love letter to legends of the 1970s Restaurant Renaissance, which he enjoyed while practicing law here in the early 1980s. Names like Le Bec-Fin, Le Panetière, and Jimmy’s Milan are invoked like wishful spells across the menus, which arrive tucked inside a souvenir envelope like wedding invitations. (Chodorow, not coincidentally, threw an elaborate engagement party for his wife at the Bellevue in 1982.)

If the Ghosts of Philly Restaurants Past have indeed answered their summons, they might be frowning down on these plates with dismay. The galette de crabe “Le Bec-Fin,” known for its use of seafood mousse to produce a delicately puffy soufflé jeweled with sweet crab, arrived here so deflated and overcooked it tasted like a fishy frittata.

“Chef [Georges Perrier] would probably lock the doors and burn the place down,” replied one of Le Bec’s longtime former chefs after I texted him a picture of my gruesome galette.

In fact, Mr. Edison’s culinary director, Matt Levin, 53, also cooked at Le Bec-Fin early in his career, which subsequently saw him burst onto the scene in the early 2000s at New Hope’s Moonlight and Lacroix at the Rittenhouse before going solo with Adsum and Square Peg, then eventually landing in the catering world. Most recently, he cooked at the Pineville Tavern in central Bucks County. While his recipe might be the same, Levin’s decision to jettison Perrier’s ring mold for a shallow pan was a fateful miscue. The galette evolved by my second meal into a soggy sponge, still not ideal for $45.

Fewer diners today recall Le Panetière, where Chodorow remembers first tasting Perrier’s food in the late 1960s. But anyone would realize upon one bite of this duck à l’orange tribute that the meaty breast, although still medium-rare, was inexplicably dry and as tough as a chew toy.

If only I could have found the frequently absent captain overseeing our table on the mezzanine before the two-hour-plus mark of our glacially slow meal, when he finally asked us, too late and far too smugly, “Did that hit the spot?”

“Not very well,” I replied honestly with a detailed report, noting we’d hardly eaten this $90 sharing splurge as a result. He shrugged a faint reply, then handed us our bill with not even the slightest gesture of apology, though I was not surprised. He’d also forgotten so much as a candle for our dessert after we told him upon arrival (after he asked) we were celebrating a birthday.

As a restaurant romantic, I value grand ambitions such as those that shaped Mr. Edison, a $10 million makeover of the former Polo store that recalls the showplace splendor of Walnut Street’s Restaurant Row in the late 1990s (Striped Bass, Susanna Foo, Brasserie Perrier) more than the DIY quirkiness of the Restaurant Renaissance that preceded it. It’s far preferable to the cookie-cutter chains that otherwise populate South Broad Street. But executing that ideal in a 133-seat room in 2026 — when, as chef Levin noted, people can make more working for food-delivery apps than actually cooking the food — is a challenge. With check averages of $120 (before tip and tax), no customer wants to hear excuses.

Improvement is within reach. We were seated at my following visit on the daisy wheel banquette that anchors the downstairs dining room, and the service there was much sharper. We had a perfect vantage to hear Drew Nugent & the Midnight Society swing onstage and to drink this bar’s outstanding cocktails, including the large carafe of a superb Negroni (this variation blending Cocchi di Torino and Punt e Mes) poured tableside over giant ice cubes. At $57 for the equivalent of three-plus cocktails, it’s one of Mr. Edison’s best values.

I’d definitely return for a seat at the titanium granite bar to enjoy the well-curated lineup of live music, sip other cocktail hits (the white coffee-infused Wizard or tropical 30 Minute Nap), and graze on some of the small plates.

The Korean fried oysters with kimchi and chicken salad was an intriguing riff on one of my favorite historical Philly food oddities, the spice and fermented funk of the cabbage cutting through the clubby richness. Waffle chips to scoop paddlefish caviar from fancy French onion dip was an accessible alternative to the far pricier sturgeon caviar service. The quail yolk-dotted beef tartare ringed by fried beef tendon puffs was irresistible, while a petite portion of seared filet mignon fanned over a creamy au poivre sauce with morels tapped another red-meat craving without the steakhouse clichés.

The Jimmy’s Milan salad — essentially crunchy lettuce tossed with bacon, big shrimp, hard-boiled eggs, and a zesty Russian-Italian hybrid dressing — is proof that some vintage pleasures don’t need to be reinvented to be appreciated. The restaurant’s $48 baked potato, stuffed with nearly half a pound of sweet lump crab au gratin, was the most memorable thing I ate at Mr. Edison, a super spud splurge that could hit yet another level with a $40 “blackout” addition of caviar.

A couple of the small plates fell short. A meaty flap of tuna carpaccio was not pounded thin enough. The corn-encrusted soft-shell crabs over mole verde were not soft enough, leaving me with a mouthful of shells.

Updating classics is a tricky prospect, and often Levin’s contemporary reworking drifted too far afield for its own good. The baked “Edison meets Rockefeller” oysters were so underdressed, with splashes of Mornay and fines herbes butter replacing the typically lush green puree, it lacked the indulgence to suit its name, even with a crispy nugget of guanciale. A $110 rendition of lobster Thermidor was not simply unrecognizable; without the full shell, into which it is typically stuffed and gratinéed, it was one-dimensional and boring.

The grilled lamb chops spiced with vadouvan curry with Thumbelina carrots were the most satisfying of the “Grand Plates” for two, while the butterflied whole dorade over chimichurri and the buffalo milk ricotta ravioli were safe bets for the unadventurous.

Too many other big dishes stumbled over the basics of seasoning — like a veal chop Milanese that cradled a handful of flaky salt atop its breaded crust. The brick chicken was so salty that my gums ached until the end of the meal.

Tucked into the stuffiest far corner of the mezzanine behind the bar for this final visit, I’d hoped an old-fashioned dessert would offer enough sweetness to counter that salty bird. I considered one of the winners I’d already enjoyed at previous visits: a recreation of the coconut cake from Old Original Bookbinder’s, a tasty nod to the Frog’s legendary carrot cake with butter pecan ice cream, or the dense chocolate-and-peanut butter tart.

I opted for the crème brûlée to keep it easy, only to find its caramel crust — ideally torched to order and still warm — was cold by the time it ascended to our second-floor perch beneath the lightning-bolt rafters. I looked down toward the bar’s Ferris wheel as it cycled up toward us and couldn’t help but imagine the Ghosts of Philly Restaurants Past riding along with those glass cages, so hopeful for their comeback moment. Rising then falling, again and again, they sent shrugs of disappointment in my direction as they rolled away.

Dinner Sunday through Thursday, 5-11 p.m.; Friday and Saturday, until midnight.

Small plates, $19-$45; Sharing plates for two, $58-$115.

Fully wheelchair accessible to all parts of the restaurant, including two wheelchair accessible seats at the bar.

Gluten-free: At least half the menu is either gluten-free or can be modified, including items cooked in a gluten-free fryer.

Menu highlights: Caviar dip; Korean-fried oysters; Jimmy’s Milan salad; Korean fried oysters; filet au poivre; baked potato with crab gratin; buffalo ricotta ravioli; lamb chops; carrot cake.

Beverage program: Don’t let the ostentatious bling bottles on the Ferris wheel fool you. The bar is Mr. Edison’s strong suit, with well-crafted and thoughtful updates to classic ideas using modern techniques and quality ingredients. The tableside Negroni towers are worth it, along with other cocktail highlights. The wine list is more predictable.