The opulent centerpiece of the grand old Fairmont Olympic Hotel is as creamy as a wedding cake: a pilastered and filigreed marvel of soaring ceilings and sparkling chandeliers, where every second table is toasting an anniversary and the others are filled with families treating grandma. The Georgian is the place fussy service went when it died—a source of both luxuriant pampering (particularly from the finest fleet of bussers in the city) and unintentional hilarity—and the food can likewise suffer under the weight of this much pretension. But when the kitchen hits it, out will come a truly inventive creation—a Caesar derivative with the romaine wrapped in curls of potato, for instance—or a classic triumph, like one of the Georgian's legendary souffles. No detail is missed, from the herbed butters to the crumb scoops, and one therefore pays handsomely, something the expense accounters and power breakfasters are ever willing to do. Breakfast and lunch only.