If you thought the cliché of gloppy overpriced hotel food went out long ago, you haven’t sat through dinner at the flagship restaurant in midtown’s Warwick Hotel. The dining room murals, commissioned in the 1930s by William Randolph Hearst, offer some visual promise. Don’t be fooled by the setting, or even the starters. Sure, the Caesar salad is tangy, the garlicky shrimp suitably sizzling. But it only goes downhill from there. The menu, refashioned to incorporate the chef’s odd fusion impulses, offers a clue: There’s an Asian ingredient or three added, mostly incongruously, to just about every entrée. Why does the bacon-wrapped veal loin need a viscous Thai-style sauce, particularly when it sits atop mealy artichoke and brown-rice risotto? And shrimp tempura, in a bizarre creamy sauce, is enrobed in so much beer batter it looks like aquatic corn dogs. Even dessert couldn’t sweeten this meal.