Miami has made room for its fair share of culinary clones from New York, Las Vegas, L.A. and New Orleans. But Cleveland? We'll see. Red The Steakhouse has exported its big, brash, Cuyahoga County brand to South Beach, where it joins another half-dozen meat emporiums with much the same idea in mind.

That idea, perhaps a bit out of sync with these lean times, is uninhibited excess. And Red delivers with outsized portions, loads of garlic, oil, cream and salt and prices to match.

Decked out with huge mirrors, distressed metal, burnished mahogany and faux leather booths against its namesake color, Red's dining room has a generically handsome look. Waiters, though dressed in black, are the usual brand of South Beach green, but the bubbly hostesses and burly managers know how to make guests feel comfortable.

The 700-bottle wine list, mostly from this decade and split between the Old and New Worlds, holds two nice surprises: Prices (about 2½ times retail) are below the gouging range, and by-the-glass options (well-suited to the meat-heavy menu) are served at proper temperature.

A perfectly average basket of hot rolls proves redundant with so much food to come. A tire rim-sized platter of heavily breaded and spiced calamari never seemed to shrink, though four of us picked at it for 15 minutes. Likewise, greasy tater tots, served with a gloppy sour cream dip that took me back to my high school cafeteria, proved the fry cook needs more training. An onion soup with a gunky cheese topping and a salad of heirloom tomato with stringy mozzarella lack authenticity.

Executive chef Peter Vauthy certainly knows his way around a grill, and his prime meats, including a mammoth porterhouse and petite filet mignon, are the stars of the show. The bone-in New York strip our waiter had touted arrived minus the tasty bone, but was fantastically well-marbled, expertly seared, judiciously seasoned, super flavorful and delightfully tender.

Also impressive is a simple, miraculously juicy, whole Ashley Farms double chicken breast loaded with fresh herbs and seared until the skin is as blistered as a careless tourist.

Pastas are another story. I ordered the insanely priced bucatini and meatballs ($27) for one of my daughters because the waiter insisted the kitchen would not serve a half-portion, even to a person who weighs 30 pounds. I laughed out loud as a plate big enough to handle a Thanksgiving turkey landed on the table with a thud. Three huge, chewy meatballs were juicy enough but loaded with enough dry oregano to choke a cat. The "red lead" sauce was the sweet, chunky, Italian-American variety.

A similar experience some weeks later yielded an equally obscene portion of so-called carbonara pasta (really more like Alfredo) that could have fed a family of five. The thick, creamy sauce bore no resemblance to the eggy original, nor did the generic peas and meaty tail-on shrimp. I have to admit that the trenne, a triangular penne-like pasta, was delicious if slightly overcooked, and the huge hunks of chewy pancetta brought the dish together in a decadent way.

Shrimp de Jonghe is another mislabeled though delicious entree. The classic, named for a 1920s Chicago hotel, is a casserole of shelled shrimp topped with toasty, sherry-spiked bread crumbs. Here, 10 freestanding, butterflied shrimp arrive with loads of fresh herbs but no hint of bread or sherry.

An enticing selection of desserts includes molten chocolate cake, white chocolate soup with coconut sorbet, a crème brulée trio and frozen Meyer lemon soufflé. But it is the hot, puffy doughnut holes the size of cupcakes dusted with powdered sugar and served with caramel, chocolate and strawberry dipping sauces that make for a decadent ending to a meal that ultimately feels more gluttonous than gourmet.