Quite a few years ago, I had one of those after-class arguments with an educational psychology expert who insisted true-false and multiple choice were the only fair, objective ways to measure knowledge. Being a sucker for long-winded explanations, I took exception. In my world, few things are as simple as A, B, C or D.

Take Aquarius, the upscale Mediterranean restaurant inside the Alchymist Hotel. Is it expensive? Well, that depends. An evening meal without wine would set middle-income American travelers back about 4 percent or 6 percent of their monthly take-home pay. For the average Czech, however, it's an astronomical 20 percent or more.

So I'll just check off "all of the above."

Is it worth the price? Chef Miroslav Kalina and his staff try hard to make it all worthwhile, turning several menu items into works of art.

The tartare trio — meaning avocado, tomato and langoustines — resembles a multihued mesa in the American Southwest. Washed-out reds stack on pale olive topped by muted pink and the sharp, contrasting black of osetra caviar, a visual dervish that piques expectations for an exquisite starter. Something in the indescribable taste of avocado brings out the best in a tomato, as fans of Tex-Mex well know. But langoustines lack the sass of their uncultured American relative, the good old Louisiana mudbug. Swamp-water crawfish would stand up to more refined elements like salty sturgeon roe. Langoustines are far too demure, content to loll in the background. While clever and not unpleasant, the dish ultimately leans a little too heavily on visual appeal.

Even more spectacular in presentation is a plate of bluefin tuna, arrayed in small portions on a rectangular slab splashed with vegetables of discordant color. There's a swipe of drab olive, a glob of magenta and splotches of dirty white, each representing culinary brushstrokes. Carrot and asparagus tips, assorted stems and a single blanched cherry tomato exploding with a spectacular savory/sweet/toasted cartwheel of flavor provide entertainment.

But this is an entrée, not a carnival. Good bluefin is pretty, delicate and decidedly moody. When exposed to heat, even just a fraction too long, it toughens up. In this case the chewy, tacky outer rim of overcooked meat comes close to spoiling the circus.

Along with engaging all five senses, restaurants at this level should wow guests with their ability to produce just about anything requested. But my drink order — kir — stirred confusion.

Very shortly the waiter returned. "Kir royale?" he asked.

I assured him that the original order was not just some truncated mistake. He flinched, stepping forward once again after a moment. So I explained about substituting white wine for Champagne. When the bill arrived, there was no mention of the simple aperitif. It was heartening to see that, despite the ornate setting, management is not so proud that they won't admit to little gaps in their knowledge. One appreciates the honesty. And removing it from my bill was a nice touch. Like the overcooked tuna and underwhelming tartare, though, having guests explain a well-known drink represents a setback for any high-end establishment.

Apart from a few flaws in execution, chef Kalina and his kitchen perform reasonably well. Patanegra ham from Spain's famous black-footed pigs is silky and almost sweet before heftier flavors assert themselves. A veal sirloin entrée responds well to earthy sides, including a beautifully mellow cake of Arborio rice and parmesan, finished in the pan to add color and caramelized bitterness. It shares acrid, sharp and sweet moments, finishing in a burnished, grassy haze like the aftermath of a prairie fire. For dessert, tiramisu set in a coffee cup skimps on the lady fingers yet is nicely balanced and subtle.

But worth the price? If you don't mind paying for competent but not particularly memorable cooking, then yes.