The interior of Morton’s is quintessential steakhouse, with dark woods, soft lighting and a somewhat intimate feel, considering the scale. Photo by John Gurzinski.

Here, in a nutshell, is the genius of Morton's The Steakhouse:

On a busy, busy weekend -- NASCAR and ShoWest, and Lord and the convention authority only know what all -- we were in and out, with three courses and after-dinner coffee, in about an hour and a half. And at no point did we feel rushed; at no point did we feel that it was anything but a nice, relaxing dinner.

And, OK, in a lot of cities that wouldn't be considered a plus (and since I can't remember the last time I ate in a Morton's anywhere else, I don't know if that's the way things work chainwide, though I tend to doubt it). But this is Las Vegas, where people want to get on to the next thing, whether that's a concert or show or the tables or whatever. Numerous chefs who have established themselves in New York have told me that while a white-tablecloth dinner there remains, for the most part, the prime event of an evening, in Las Vegas it's just one component.

Yet, while we want to get on to other things, we don't want to feel rushed, don't want to feel like they're just trying to turn the table. If we're spending what for most people amounts to a pretty good chunk of change, we want the experience to be a little special.

At Morton's it was, and that started the minute we arrived at the door. Arriving well before our reservation, we explained our situation -- and the fact that we were willing to wait -- at the front desk, and were seated immediately, despite a huge degree of hubbub throughout the restaurant, including at least four large parties in private rooms.

Our waiter greeted us immediately but there was a delay before our menus were brought because first he had to do the "menu presentation." Morton's makes a bit of a show of this, in which the servers bring a tray of raw meats and seafood, all hygienically wrapped in plastic, to give you an idea of what dinner's going to look like. That the cooked meats will bear little resemblance to the raw versions apparently is beside the point (and the practice even can backfire somewhat; we didn't order the asparagus because we didn't like its tree-trunk proportions).

So by now we were feeling pretty well taken care of. There was a large, onion-crusted loaf of bread on the table, and every time a dish was cleared, someone would crumb the table. Our starters arrived promptly -- due partly to efficiency, partly to the fact that the menu is fairly streamlined, which is another facet of Morton's genius -- and the pace picked up, with the quality of the food in no way eclipsed by the service.

A crabmeat cocktail ($15, and a bargain, considering the size) contained big chunks of chilled, sweet, fresh lump crabmeat (and this was truly lump crabmeat), and was accompanied by a mustard-mayonnaise sauce that wasn't so pungent as to overpower the delicate crab.

A salad of beefsteak tomatoes ($10) was composed of thick, red, ripe slices of tomatoes with the meaty quality that gave this variety its name. The purple onion that the menu promised was mysteriously missing, but the crumbled blue cheese (vinaigrette is another option) scattered atop was in such profusion that we didn't miss it.

Sesame-encrusted yellowfin ($33) was all that it should be. The accompanying soy-ginger sauce wasn't as kicky as the menu's "spicy" label would indicate, but the coating provided all the counterpoint we wanted.

But Morton's is a steakhouse, so it was only appropriate that the stars of the show would be in that area. A New York strip ($46) was as rare as we wanted it to be and was possessed of the deep flavor produced by careful aging and enough fat to give it a Prime designation. Lyonnaise potatoes ($8) were one of the best versions we've ever had of this dish, because while the potatoes were both nicely crusted and meltingly tender, the onions were brown and crunchy.

Creamed spinach ($11) -- another steakhouse staple -- was another superlative rendition, with a lovely, rich creaminess and a good jolt of garlic that gave this dish more character than creamed spinach has a right to have. As we talked about it the following evening, a trusted friend who's a creamed-spinach aficionado told us he thinks the Morton's version is the best he's tasted anywhere in the country, and we wouldn't disagree.

And finally, a Grand Marnier souffle ($15). A deftly prepared souffle has an interior that is as rich and creamy as the exterior is light and airy, and that was certainly the case here. Our waiter divided it on a tableside cart and served it with creme anglaise, and the souffle's interior was distinguishable from the sauce only by its clear orange flavor.

Service throughout was excellent, and that extended to our wine service. The wine list is deep and varied, with bottles available in many varietals, vintages and price points. Our Greg Norman 2004 Cabernet/Merlot ($48) was served so smoothly throughout our dinner that we almost were surprised when the bottle was gone.

I've always thought that the "the steakhouse" after the Morton's name was a little awkward and more than a little pretentious. But in retrospect? Yeah, Morton's is The Steakhouse.

Las Vegas Review-Journal reviews are done anonymously at Review-Journal expense. Contact Heidi Knapp Rinella at 383-0474 or e-mail her at hrinella@reviewjournal.com.