It had been a few years since I ate under the harsh florescent lights at D.Z. Akin’s. My last memories of the sprawling Jewish restaurant were of sandwiches stacked to the ceiling and a disheveled atmosphere overwhelmed by popularity. Deja vous struck hard last week the moment I set foot into the souvenir shop/deli that can’t be avoided upon entering the place.

The problem with Jewish eateries in San Diego is that they fall in short supply compared to cities like Los Angeles and New York. Quality is compromised by volume. And the average theme-seeking Anglo San Diegan doesn’t have a dependable benchmark for which to judge them.

Arriving with a ravenous appetite – and one of the least persnickety dinner companions from my coterie – I vowed to avoid the common corned beef trap. In two previous visits, the meat was horrendously rugged – although I learned later from a waitress that it’s much better if you request “extra lean.”

The restaurant afflicts its guests with one of the biggest, most dizzying menus in the world, which, admittedly, is part of the draw here. Classic favorites such as Schav and Matzo Ball soups, Gefilte Fish Sandwiches and Potato Latkes defer to every imaginable greasy-spoon dish under the sun, thus appealing to a largely white-bread crowd that daringly deviates on occasion from Denny’s. The restaurant, after all, sits on the brink of La Mesa, where residents swallow an annual Oktoberfest that is about as authentic as the Swedish meatballs served at Ikea.

An appetizer of Debi’s Chopped Liver proved that blandness sells. It immediately caused my companion’s eyebrows to start flexing as he struggled to detect any flavor in the mash. Slices of raw onion and fresh oranges on the side helped somewhat.

My first course, Kasha Varnishkes, tasted like my great aunt’s house used to smell – a forsaken scent of cedar and mothballs. The pasta bowties, mixed with poached buckwheat and sautéed onions, were dry and obviously precooked earlier that day. And the buckwheat needed some sort of flavoring to mute its woodsy flavor.

The soups at D.Z.’s remain a highpoint, especially the Matzo Ball, served in a bright mellow chicken broth with plenty of extra-fine egg noodles. We also thoroughly enjoyed the Sweet and Sour Cabbage Soup, which was flavored strongly both ways.

From the all-inclusive dinner category (available daily after 4:00 p.m.) we sprung for the Roasted Brisket of Beef, served with the restaurant’s ever-present brown gravy and dense, homemade mashed potatoes. The meal was unremarkable, but satisfying. Our second entrée, the Stuffed Cabbage Roll, was a big honkin’ object packed with good ground beef. My only caveat was that it came drowned in a sweet-and-sour sauce that suspiciously resembled the cabbage soup.

Gigantic menus call for lawless appetites, which meant that we couldn’t flee without hitting D.Z.’s prominent sandwich board. But how does one begin choosing from 102 varieties in all – not counting a full selection of burgers? The Fried Salami and Egg on a Kaiser Roll proved to be a nice choice, perhaps more indicative of the quality I’ve experienced in Jewish delis back East. A complimentary prescription for Lipitor, however, would have left me feeling less guilty.

If you can’t handle stampedes, it’s best to visit after the dinner rush. Yet, even then, the expansive dining room appeared like an unkempt mess hall; tables needed busing, wait stations were in disarray and the only remaining toilet paper in the bathrooms were a few rumpled sheets on the floor. It had been an achingly long day at Akin’s, it seemed.

Dessert was our consolation. The 7-Layer Rum Cake with chocolate frosting was robustly accented with the star ingredient, albeit a little dry. And the Cherry-Cheese Blintzes were piping hot, gooey and clearly made to order.

I won’t dismiss D.Z. Akin’s entirely on a few visits, although given its successful 24-year history the owners could surely flavor up the food better and eradicate those eye-wrenching florescent lights, which don’t exactly complement a dish of stuffed Kishka with pale brown gravy.