Ignore the hook, try the Fish.

Fish 280 Bleecker St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-727-2879 The second time I dined at Fish, the co-owner of the place told me off. He runs the floor from behind the bar of his West Village seafood restaurant. My first visit had been the previous night, and it too featured some static in my communications with Captain Jerry (whose name I learned from a label on his bottle-opener). Yet his problem with me wasn't cumulative-Jerry didn't remember our first encounter. He just starts with customers when he's in a bad mood, it seems.

The guy's got a pirate look going: shaves his head, avoids smiling, wears all black except for a half-pound of silver jewelry in his jug-handle ears. Keeps the crusty seaman's attitude at full steam. I found it charming the first time I bellied up to the bar. A restaurant operating under a generic name needs something memorable to offset that unwise move. At Fish (why not "Captain Jerry's"?) the seafood is first-rate, the preparations exquisite and the room well-lit, so dive-bar service makes quite an impression.

I claimed a stool that second time and was greeted by Jerry's oyster shucker. Before my coat was even off I'd ordered a half-dozen Spinney Creeks and a glass of muscadet. Two minutes later there they were, and 30 seconds after that I was overwhelmed. I hadn't had great oysters since March. (I was initiated into oyster connoisseurship by a purist, and have kept my old-fashioned training. That means no oysters when it's warm outside. The reason, since negated by advances in transportation and storage technology, is that oysters from warm water are inferior. Plus they're more likely to kill you. It's still a good tradition, like fish on Fridays.) The Spinney Creeks, from Maine, were well worth the five-month wait. The full-bodied brine knocked me into revelry.

I was thinking that proper oyster consumption isn't exactly eating. You don't quite chew, and hunger isn't actually satisfied. Their singular effect is more metaphysical-a total experience, as opposed to a bite-and-swallow thing. I'd just decided that a better comparison than to eating would be to shots of tequila, or to having sex-except that you can easily do it 12 times in a row-when Captain Jerry broke my train of thought. He wanted to know if I'd be wanting anything else tonight. I nodded, because I had four courses and four wines planned out. Then he said, "You want to tell me what?" Still enjoying the crabbily efficient pirate-boss routine, I told him I needed a couple of minutes with my oysters first. As soon as I'd downed all six, I gave Jerry the rest of my order.

Then he asked me where I was from. It was his prelude to an insult.

Around here. Where are you from?

North Africa. I just ask because where I'm from, when you sit down at a bar, you tell the guy what you want.

Huh?

Because it's easier to get it for you that way.

You're giving me shit because I wasn't ready to order when you asked?

I'm not giving you shit. I'm just saying that where I'm from, when you sit down, you tell the guy what you want, because it's easier to get it for you that way.

Well, I'm a little taken aback.

Why?

I'm surprised that a bartender?

I own the place.

I'm surprised that anyone would speak to a customer that way.

It's just that when you say what you want, it's easier to get it for you.

Yeah, I get it.

A genteel lady sitting next to me told me Jerry's not usually like that. Indeed, I'd seen him sweet-talk a party of tipsy ladies-night-outers the night before. Always open-minded, I figured it's possible I really did make such a mockery of North-African ordering etiquette that it necessitated a reprimand. Also, it occurred to me that Jerry had left himself wide open for a comeback.

When the genteel lady left, her spot at the bar was filled by a couple of French tourists. Jerry served them wine but forgot to give them menus. I helped them acquire one (they'd asked for "the card" and were given Fish's business card), and assisted further with translations (though it's tres difficile to explain "hush puppies"). Jerry couldn't seem to muster up any French at all, I noticed. I was about to say, You know, where I'm from, when diners sit down, they get menus, and people 'from North Africa' who aren't just playing pirate can speak French? but I decided he'd probably throw me out.

And I didn't want to miss Captain Jerry's cuisine. Fish is the retail and dining arm of a local seafood distributor, Down East Seafood. The relationship makes a big impact on quality and value. The restaurant's raw-bar special is an awesome deal-six oysters (Blue Points or Malpeques, depending on availability) and a draft beer or house wine for $8. You can even substitute ultra-dry muscadet for an extra $2. The house white, Portuguese Vinho Verde, is almost as good a palate-cleanser. It's also young, but with a touch of carbonated fizz.

An appetizer of steamed mussels meuniere ($9) brought small, intense creatures in a hot broth, elementally precise: butter, shallots, garlic and parsley in sturdy balance. Fancier was the scallops ceviche ($10). Diver scallops had been carved into sushi-style medallions and artfully arranged, white flesh like beach-house shingles on a bed of lime-bathed greens and tomato, with flecks of cilantro all around. You could blind taste-test this dish with someone under the impression she hated scallops and she'd probably marvel at the delicate flavor, the mysteriously unique texture.

Fish's Maryland crab cake ($9) isn't nearly lumpy enough to be worthy of the name, but it's far from an embarrassment. Fresh crab is the leading flavor, followed by Old Bay seasoning, then the oily fried bread crumbs. New England clam chowder ($5-$7) was also big on flavor but unimpressive in terms of count. British-style fish and chips ($14) was nearly the absolute real-deal: gorgeously battered strips of flaky cod, like golden sponges for malt vinegar. Seriously crispy chips, too. Jerry's is only a haddock option and a smidgen of fresh-potato mushiness away from That Which You Can't Possibly Get Here. I salute him.

He bought me my fourth drink and, just before I left, said something just short of an apology about "my tone." All said and done, I'll be happy to see the guy again-if he doesn't throw me out.