You don't need to be a cinephile to conclude that "The Terminator" films peaked with its first sequel, "Judgment Day." That despite Arnold Schwarzenegger's reappearance and clumsy — but welcome — fan-service moments in the following films, the franchise had already frayed.

On its best day, the restaurant Butcher & the Boar feels like the tail end of a calcifying franchise. The bones of a handsome Shea-designed restaurant are there. There are tables long enough to prop up a Porsche, smooth banquettes to mimic those curves, a mahogany bar straight out of an old-money club and the gratuitous use of dark leather to pad all the ambition. Beyond that, though, you may struggle to find any meaningful connection to the original, which the late Jack Riebel built into a venerable institution more than a decade ago.

For one, it's remarkable how so many items on the menu have made the cut. I'm told the double-cut pork chop is Duroc that has been brined, smoked, then grilled. You wouldn't know from the way it eats — as tough as a tire — and tastes. On two separate occasions, not very much of pork, but rather of the pineapple salsa smothered atop it, reminiscent of fruit cocktail lubed with syrup.

I'm assured that the 20-ounce rib-eye is more forgiving, but what arrived on our table — sullen crust, no marbling, a pool of its own juices — skews more flatiron than rib-eye. It may have been broiled to medium-rare but tasted like the kitchen had dabbled in a coup of last-mile cookery by way of microwave.

But the hardest thing to swallow is the cost, $85. With the obligatory hospitality charge (22%) and tip (strongly urged), the price of what masqueraded as rib-eye will run you $120 or more, guilt and generosity notwithstanding — which means my favorite rib-eye, from Manny's ($79, for a bigger cut, no strings attached), is a steal.

I don't know if that pork chop, at $58, is much more of a bargain because the one at Butcher & the Boar's rogue spinoff, Butcher's Tale, is $49 and fabulous: ferocious char, milky flesh, butter-soft.

Jester Concepts, which owns and operates Parlour, Borough and P.S. Steak, bought the rights to the Butcher & the Boar name and recipes, and launched the new version earlier this year in the North Loop, where Mpls.St.Paul magazine once stood. The space is bigger and accommodates wealth manager-friendly private dining rooms, including one dedicated to Riebel.

I'd like to think he would approve of the long rib that made him and the restaurant, for the one served at Butcher & the Boar today lives up to it and deserves your attention. There's the dark-chocolate-hued crust, which you pry apart with ease; the mesmerizingly tender flesh, streaked with fat that jiggles when you shake the plate back and forth; the silky tabasco-molasses glaze; and just enough of that old-school jus to extend these pleasures to the last bite.

It will melt doubt, surely. Especially alongside the dependable whiskey cocktails. And while we're at it, the sour-cream chive mash, too, which oddly is one of other best things to order off the menu. This one isn't too grainy, nor buttery, and is reminiscent of the good, burly mashes served at better college cafeterias.

The other sides are fine, including a sweet potato mash and grilled cauliflower that was al dente and nutty. The salads taste of themselves — a lettuce salad is bound with a serviceable mustard vinaigrette — and although a wedge salad has vulgar amounts of blue cheese dressing, the leaves hold their own. But who goes to a steakhouse for salad?

When in a better mood, I would consider one of the five sausage varietals on offer — the green chorizo because the spice and herbs don't detract from the meatiness and moistness of it all. The cheddarwurst can be divisive because the yellow moat of cheese encased within an otherwise flavorful sausage spills out like lava. The other sausages can be dry.

I will also remember the braunschweiger, our table's favorite item in the charcuterie section. It's a type of German sausage made from pork liver, with a meaty and smoky undertone. This one is shaped like pâte and crowned with raw diced onion. Never mind that it — and other items on the section — resembles Lunchables, with scant little cubes of bland cheese. It may not look like much but spreads convincingly on grilled sourdough.

And if someone else is footing the bill, I would give the scallops a go: $24 will buy you just two of them, each smaller than a baby's palm, on a bed of well-roasted fingerling potatoes and beautifully rich mustard cream. If no one is, then $5 more will get you a better deal with nicely charred, crisp-skinned chicken.

Hope ends there. Blue crab beignets don't taste like anything but wet doughnut holes, nor do the veal sweetbreads, with flavor reminiscent of phantom, lumpy meat; the grill on shell-on shrimp was taken too far, and the slaw accompanying it had a bottom-barrel pungency; sea bass was funky, too — the more dangerous kind — undercooked yet somehow rubbery. The seasoning of it could double as a salt quarry, and the promised XO sauce was but a whisper.

Beef tartare, oftentimes dependable for its simplicity, left no prisoners, either, with its abundance of dressing and an acidic tang that can polish dull coins.

On the opposite end are dishes deprived of taste and texture. Better among these are the Brussels sprouts, which were a little bland. But I'd still recommend them over the "smoked" mac and cheese, which was soggy, underseasoned and didn't taste much of smoke. The flatiron, too. It wasn't as tough as the rib-eye, but it didn't taste of anything, either, relying heavily on too-spicy salsa macha. Still, it's better than the lamb shoulder, dry, stringy meat suspended in a too-sour chimichurri.

It puzzles me why a thin wedge of salmon can still overcook; why carrots are aggressively charred on the outside but still raw within; and why cornbread can look magnificent but eat like the clumpy insides of a vacuum dust cup.

It also puzzles me why diners don't seem to care. With a commanding setting and a camaraderie-building whiskey list, food may be beside the point. If you make it one, try not to get fleeced.

Butcher & the Boar

⋆

Location: 901 N. 3rd St., Mpls., butcherandtheboarmpls.com

Hours: 4-11 p.m. Sun.-Thu., 4 p.m.-midnight Fri.-Sat. Brunch served from 10 a.m.-2 p.m. Sat.-Sun.

Prices: Appetizers range from a snack plate ($10) to wood-grilled oysters ($25); the handful of salads are $16-$17. There's an array of sausages ($16), or order a sampler ($69 for four); main courses range from fish ($33-$47) to meats ($29-$85); sides from mashed potatoes ($10) to charred baby carrots ($15).

Beverage program: A long, long, long list of whiskeys, from both North America and overseas. A healthy list of wines, beer and craft cocktails.

Parking: Free valet service during dinner hours.

Tip or no tip: There's a 22% service and hospitality charge. The tip line remains on the bill, for "those instances where you feel your service warrants an additional gratuity."

Noise level: Comfortable, even on busy nights.

Worth noting: The Char Bar, located inside the restaurant, has its own menu of drinks and handhelds. A wan chicken patty may be the least compelling section of the fried chicken burger, but despite being dry, salty and not very crisp, the burger is well balanced and there's enough lemon aioli to salve it. For $15 it's a dependable bite of food. The dedicated drink menu has creative options, including the Smoking Jacket, with scotch, aged rum, fernet and "cigar tincture."

What the stars mean:

⋆⋆⋆⋆ Exceptional

⋆⋆⋆ Highly recommended

⋆⋆ Recommended

⋆ Satisfactory

Jon Cheng is the Star Tribune's restaurant critic. Reach him at jon.cheng@startribune.com or follow him at @intrepid_glutton.