If the right person happens to be working behind the bar, Big Mamou is the only place in town serving a near-proper martini--right balance of gin and vermouth, right cocktail glass, right effect on one’s brain cells.

Beyond this moment of sophistication surrounded by 70s wood paneling, neon Bud Light signs and taped up doorway windows, the restaurant wallows in panhandle standard.

A chef’s special soup--beef and vegetable--bore greater resemblance to a bowl of dissolved bouillon cubes than a hearty assembly of rich meat and stewed garden harvest. A few peas and random scraps could not distract me from the fact that a load of razor-clawed sodium was shredding my esophagus with every spoonful. Stale bread failed to mend the wounds.

On the other hand, a New York strip ordered rare arrived with a beautiful magenta center and oozing cap of fat. The kitchen touches this with barely enough salt and pepper to make an impression, leaving you with the musty wealth of red meat, nothing more.

That’s a beautiful thing.

Of course, their menu’s assurance that their beef is superior to prime, choice and other grades seems rather bold. Angus is merely a breed. Some Angus grades prime, meeting the standard of marbling that turns good American beef into an ethereal, melt-on-the-tongue experience. Big Mamou’s apparently falls into the more common choice category.

Still, it’s the best steak I’ve had in Kimball.

The back and forth volleying continues throughout. Asparagus is nicely firm and distinct and as good as you can expect from the king of vegetables when distributed out of season--not the restaurant’s fault, by the way; as a nation we’ve traded fresh flavor for year round availability.

The salad bar feels Denny’s-ish, and the options are somewhat paltry. But the kitchen knows how to brown and crisp shredded potatoes. Even if they come from a Sysco truck, the hash browns lend a rich mouth feel and satisfying crunch. When you add cheese and onion, however, the illusion of fry-cook perfection collapses.

Why not use a decent domestic cheese rather than façade versions sold in resealable bags at supermarkets? One bland flavor on top of another hardly makes sense. Potatoes cry out for something pungent, piquant, tangy--anything but dull.

All in all, Big Mamou’s minuses are no worse than those of any other place in town. The option of a decent martini may be the biggest plus around.