At Inox, butter-poached lobster and a short-rib-filled raviolo make an unlikely but delicious pair. Photograph by Scott Suchman.

The plates are set down before us with a flourish. Nodding toward my dish, the waiter says, “Here we have the duck breast, pan-seared and served with braised fennel, baby artichoke, olives, cured foie gras, balsamic vinegar, and Yukon-potato confit.”

He turns to my friend: “And you have the crispy skate wing with our malted mustard emulsion and day-boat scallops over two kinds of roasted beets, pickled mango, capers, and blood orange.”

By the time he was done, I felt like I’d listened to some kind of fine-dining parody (malted mustard emulsion?). The server caught my skeptical half smile.

“Hey,” he said with a shrug, “if you don’t have a sense of humor about this stuff, it’ll kill you.”

Inox—the name refers to a kind of stainless steel—doesn’t lack ambition. But as the waiter managed to point out, it could stand to shake off some of the pretentiousness. Open the menu and you might find yourself puzzling over crustacé foam—that would be lobster stock whipped with lobster roe and butter—or kokum jus, made from the sour Southern Indian fruit.

The corporate air—concrete-gray-and-brown walls, private dining rooms outfitted with DVD players—only heightens the sense of uptightness. It’s hard to reconcile the atmosphere and the forbidding menu with the man behind it: Jonathan Krinn. The talented chef made his name at Falls Church’s 2941, a pondside restaurant where each meal was peppered with whimsical little surprises. There, under a wild-tentacled glass chandelier, meals began with a bread menu and ended with a silver tureen of cotton candy.

Now Krinn—along with former 2941 chef de cuisine Jon Mathieson—has traded the cotton candy for traditional macaroons and the looseness for a hyper-devotion to craft. At Inox, even a salad takes an entire day to make.

The care often pays off. Krinn works wonders with endive, softening its natural bitterness by vacuum-sealing the leaves for 24 hours with sherry vinegar, salt, olive oil, and sugar. Accented with blood-orange vinaigrette, Medjool dates, candied walnuts, and crumbles of rich Fourme d’Ambert cheese, it comes together beautifully.

Krinn shops lavishly, and the meats and game show it. The prime filet mignon—marinated in garlic, shallots, and herbs—marries tenderness with the robust flavor typically found in a fattier cut. Pork tenderloin, cider-brined and pan-roasted, is one of the best preparations of pig now playing—if only the pork belly that accompanied it hadn’t come out more cold than melty. And a blushing-pink duck breast has a velvety softness without being ringed with fat.

If you love foie gras, you’ll get a big, perfectly salted and seared slab here, complemented by sweet/sour dabs of puréed tamarind. A butter-poached curl of lobster is a surprisingly good match with a short-rib-filled raviolo. Frothy, rich sunchoke soup is another winner, especially when your spoon catches a sliver of scallop. But why is the already-sweet shellfish ringed in orange? It’s been marinated in lobster roe, which imparts glorious color—just not a whole lot else.

Is it possible to toy with food to death? It’s hard to escape the impression that dozens of hands have been styling and restyling some dishes in a dull reach for perfection. Pumpkin pierogi, even with truffled bouillon and bacon, taste totally flat. The much-vaunted skate is crusted in ground pretzels, but you wouldn’t know it from taking a bite. The beets on the same plate are roasted and marinated—yellow in vanilla oil, red in cinnamon oil—before being chopped and tossed with pickled mango, celery, and blood orange. But here’s the thing: Both times I had the dish, there was barely a whiff of flavor beyond the beets. When it comes to other fish on the menu, overcooking has been an issue: Roulades of salmon, tied together with chives, are bland and taken to pale dryness. A fish knife is no match for a tough-edged filet of red snapper, which is nearly hidden under a blanket of micro-cilantro.

Desserts are a high point, mostly because Krinn and pastry chef Scot Harlan wisely ease up on their bid to impress. A deeply rich chocolate bread pudding with olive-oil ice cream, an airy pineapple mousse, or a light and wonderful tangerine vacherin strewn with fennel-flecked meringues leaves you sated and happy, not awestruck.

One vestige of Krinn’s old restaurant remains, and that’s the excellent bread made by his father, Mal. There are at least four kinds to choose from on a given night, from a rustic wheat to a classic baguette. Then there’s the raisin-studded pumpernickel. It’s the essence of simplicity, but it’s also the one thing from Inox I can’t stop thinking about.

Open Monday through Friday for lunch, daily for dinner.

This review appeared in the May, 2009 issue of the Washingtonian.