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The Pittsburgh Penguins have arrived at Players Chophouse. Before the hockey team even has a chance to get settled, a blonde woman sitting beside us jumps up and rushes over.

The puck bunny in the plunging zebra-print top doesn't have anything to say to the players. She just hovers over their table, expectantly waving her glass of white wine around.

The players, hair still damp from their post-game showers, shift uncomfortably in their chairs and politely ignore her by burying their faces in the menus.

She leans in closer.

Oh, how embarrassing.

Waiter, forget the bill. We'll take two more drinks, please.

Who cares about hockey? This is what I call a great spectator sport.

Players Chophouse, the steakhouse-cum-sports bar previously known as Wilson's is located on Beatty Street, spitting distance away from GM Place.

It is obviously a convenient pit stop before or after the game. But I can't imagine any other reason you'd want to be here - unless, of course, you're desperate to meet a professional hockey player.

FIRST PERIOD

Reservations are hard to come by when the Canucks are playing at home. We score the one remaining table for Sid the Kid's big night in Vancouver by booking two weeks ahead. Alas, we only get our seats once the game has already started.

Schedules be damned. We arrive early to check out the pre-game action in the lounge. The place is packed - with a very specific type of fan.

"There are a lot of floaters in here," my ever-astute boyfriend observes.

He is referring to the plethora of bouncy breast implants in the crowd. Interestingly enough, I have only noticed the many groups of men in the room, all busily wolfing down pizzas and pitchers of beer.

We take the two remaining seats at the end of the bar. The Toronto Maple Leafs are losing, we gleefully note, glancing up at the game on a giant plasma screen atop the bar.

The restaurant décor might be pleasantly described as a dog's breakfast. It's a vast warehouse space covered in various expanses of expensive-looking, but ill-matching planks of wood. Round silk chandeliers hanging from the ceiling look like puffy wagon wheels, while sculptures suspended from the doorways resemble giant wood chimes made of plastic discs. A scattering of artificial Christmas trees with blinking lights only helps to accentuate the tacky shopping-mall theme.

In its previous life, as Wilson's, the steakhouse was owned by the West Vancouver MP Blair Wilson, who recently resigned from the Liberal caucus while the Elections Commissioner investigates the financial reports from his 2006 campaign.

It is now owned by the Points West Hospitality Group, a consortium of present and past sports stars that also owns Saltaire in West Vancouver and Darcy's Pub in Vancouver.

The professional hockey and football players within the ownership (Steve Passmore, Darryl Sydor and Mitch Berger among them) are represented by a column of jersey numbers lit up next to the front door.

"Why do you think they've put all these mirrors above the TVs?" my guy asks.

To better show off the floaters, of course.

SECOND PERIOD

The restaurant clears out as it gets closer to game time. By 7 p.m., we are the only people in the dining room who don't have grey hair.

Our server, a polite young gentleman, admits he doesn't care one whit for hockey either. He says he actually has no idea who the restaurant owners are and has never met them.

We like him immediately.

Chef Thai Ngo, who worked for four years as a personal cook to Hollywood actor Wesley Snipes, pares down the menu for game night.

When we ask about prime rib, the house specialty, the waiter says he'll have to check on the "colour." You obviously shouldn't expect much more than dregs on a game night.

The colour of the prime rib is apparently good.

The chartreuse tinge of West Coast Seafood Chowder ($7) is not. The sweet-corn soup tastes more like leek; the clumps of seafood are not all discernible.

A flat deck pizza ($12) is crispy. I think the crust is made with two sheets of puff pastry. The Mediterranean toppings (artichokes and olives) are of the rubbery, canned variety.

The prime rib (a regular 14-ounce cut for $26) is actually cut from USDA prime rib, the highest-quality grade of animal butchered. The chef has saved us a nice pink piece that's not too flabby. Unfortunately, the Yorkshire pudding that accompanies it is dry and bland.

The California Ribeye (14 ounces at $34) is also prime beef, so juicy and tender you could cut it with a spoon. But prime beef is supposed to be nicely marbled; this piece is grotesquely veined with fat. I'd say the fat takes up about half the plate.

We mention this to the waiter. A little while later, the manager comes over and offers to bring us a new steak. Thanks, but we're full by now.

THIRD PERIOD

Sidney Crosby and Roberto Luongo are going head-to-head in overtime - and then again, in a shootout.

Even I, the hockey pagan, can't miss the frisson.

Everyone in the room, servers included, has their eyes glued to the game. Even the waitresses standing by the line in the kitchen have stopped chomping on their carrot sticks long enough to pay attention. (Doors might be a nice addition.)

Weirdly, though, the dining-room music is still swaying over the play-by-play.

The game ends. The Canucks lose. The blue-rinse crowd clears out. The spillover from GM Place crawls in.

Sid the Kid never makes it to the restaurant. Guess he has better things to do.

The blonde in the zebra print doesn't give up her position for the rest of the night. The Penguins still don't pay her any attention.

Much like the restaurant - or tonight's game - she seems strangely heroic, but sadly pathetic.

Players Chophouse: 808 Beatty St.; 604-694-2467.

agill@globeandmail.com