It's not every day you get an invitation to a fun, fancy, flirty party on South Beach, but at the sparkling Mr. Chow, you're on the guest list -- well, if you can afford it.

After four decades wooing the tabloid set from London to Las Vegas, Michael Chow has mastered the formula for packing his eateries with diners looking more for a good time than a great meal.

It happens every night at Mr. Chow South Beach with its posh white-on-white dining room, mammoth gold-leaf and Swarovski crystal chandelier and sultry al fresco dining area at the swanky W Hotel.

Guests are greeted by a team of gorgeous models/hostesses and handed off to white-tuxedoed waiters who are better-trained in the art of schmoozing than serving.

If you find yourself at one of the dozen-plus tables that are separated by less than the width of an iPhone, don't sulk -- start up a conversation. The couple from Cleveland next to us certainly felt comfortable doing so. Just be prepared to chat over blasting classic rock tunes.

The food? Do you really have to ask? It's good. Sometimes even delicious. But really, it's not about that. Mr. Chow's guests are not expected to work very hard or think very much.

It is, in fact, nearly impossible to order your own meal. I tried. But the suave salesmen, er, waiters, take care of everything. Fish, chicken, beef? How about lobster? Why not start with a champagne toast? How elegant. How much? If you have to ask . . . $28 for a glass of nonvintage Veuve Clicquot rosé.

We found plenty of perfectly good wines on the pricey international list to go with our first, seafood-centric meal. A crisp and grassy sancerre and a rosé, both from the Loire Valley, were up to the task, but we expected a bit more imagination.

The cod dumplings are soft and slippery, served with a rather average soy-vinegar sauce that was removed by an overzealous busser before we had finished. Pork pot stickers, brought though I had told our waiter my friend didn't eat meat, were gummy and overcooked. Soup dumplings were springy and hot in a nice, bright broth.

A smattering of tiny clams over chewy rice didn't wow, but a dark and dramatic serving of rice noodles with squid ink was divine. Anything in XO sauce, including our shriveled green beans, is so salty that multiple bottles of water are required. Excellent, unctuous drunken fish is super-fresh sole in a sweet, buttery sauce so thick it could nearly hold up a spoon.

The unavoidable prix-fixe meals include a bowl of sublimely crunchy and colorful vegetables made umami-rich with what I expect is monosodium glutamate. The gently stir-fried rice includes impressively tender, knuckle-sized shrimp. And yes, the tiny but heavenly lobster in its shell is an indulgence I approve of.

Count on anything with ``glazed'' in the name, including the fresh, springy prawns with walnuts, to be as sweet as dessert, which as far as I am concerned can be skipped. A formulaic molten chocolate cake was well-executed, but I could have done without the frilly Valentine of pink parfait.

I understand Madonna loves the place. Brad Pitt is said to favor the chicken satay and Jennifer Lopez the lobster. But I can't help thinking I'd really just love some good Chinese takeout.