Pierres Roulantes Bistro

The bartender asks, "Sir, what's your name? What's your name?" But the gent is too busy staring at the woman seated next to him to hear the question. He introduces himself to me.

"You look like a nice girl."

"I am a nice girl."

He tells me he knew Marylou, that she had a big heart and it was always very relaxed down here. He thinks her son has helped to create a similar vibe and that this spot will have a long life. A song I dislike, "Brown Sugar," plays on the speakers. We talk about lyrics, success and how much we each lost in the market. I kiss my date, who has appeared in back of me, and say goodbye.

"Maybe I'll see you again. He's lucky to have you."

Not that he has me yet, but I'm not sure he'd agree anyway. My date tells me he'd been to Marylou's once before with his lawyer pal. Chris Robinson at the bar had begged the lawyer, "Stop telling me about all the Dead shows you've been to."

A petite French blonde in a crimson dress takes coats. The bistro's business cards are square and suggest album covers. In one dining room, thin wooden beams line the ceiling for added warmth; wine bottles line a wall. Tan floor tiling persists from the previous incarnation. Precious old-timey frosted glass fixtures emit such a low glow I must use our votive to read the menu. Old friends, after-work groups and dates, all upward of 40, pepper the romantic room. Dress is suits or black. The pacing is European, so you'd best enjoy your dinner companion's conversation. On the wall above our table, the stylized autographs of les Pierres; apparently they've had a lot of practice signing their names. The maitre d' smokes a stogy in the warm bar, so perhaps you would be permitted to also.

A grapey yet mellow Cotes du Rhone ($7) is generously poured into an oversized balloon glass. No taps (mon dieu!), but there're bottles of Kronenbourg and "Rolling Rock at a French restaurant? I guess you'll give them points for that." A dish of butter pats and a basket of sturdy, rustic farmhouse and white breads are brought. A conundrum, the menu has too many things that I like on it, croque monsieur and madame, onion soup, escargots, steak tartare, veal, etc. The house salad has ripe cherry tomato halves, and wedges of hard-boiled egg circling a mound of lively and varied lettuces. The dressing has been lightly applied, a pleasant oil and not at all acidic. The serving comes on an oversized plate and the waiter must rearrange the contents of our small table like a puzzle.

But the big loaded-up starter foreshadows the appetizing and comforting abundance in residence. Cutie-pie across from me is a seafood nut and he doesn't go hungry here. A half-dozen raw littlenecks ($11) are fresh and bracing. No cocktail sauce; instead there's a heavily shallotted mignonette. A bowl of classically prepared mussels mariners ($10.50) contains such an excess that we can't help but laugh. The waiter asks, "Enough mussels?" They're sweet and plump, steamed in a mild broth and served in a hot, substantial New England chowdery cream sauce. I've not had better. Servers ceaselessly remove bowls of spent shells. So many mollusks we can't finish the portion.

"Silly Love Songs" comes on over the speakers. "I like this song," says I. My date issues scornfully, "This is a silly song." I find I'm unable to argue with that assessment.

A side of fries ($4), recommended by our waiter, comes with tins of real Dijon mustard (the kind that makes you feel like a fire-breathing dragon) and ketchup. These are some good fries?hot, browned, crisp with soft insides, but annoyingly, they keep leaping into your mouth long after you're full. I like them better than Les Halles'. I know that is a controversial statement, but can't you admit that Les Halles is really more about atmosphere and a great location and models hanging about the bar and being able to get a steak at 3:30 in the afternoon than the fries? Look into your heart and be honest about this. I can think of three spots right off the bat that have better ones.

Now, I don't mean to bash Les Halles?I had my first (and second-to-last) blind date there, which could not have been more perfect and led to a fairly long relationship. I met him there; he'd said to look for someone 6-foot-5. He was 5-foot-8. He wanted to order a bottle of merlot and asked how many glasses I was good for. "At least two." "We're going to get along just fine." When I didn't think I was hungry enough for the prime rib, he recommended I order the hanger steak (onglet à l'échalote), which I polished off. He didn't seem to mind that I was more preoccupied with the steak than with him. He told me he was divorced and did I think divorce was very bad for kids. I looked up from my plate for a moment, said, "Yes," and popped another bite in my mouth. Oddly, he asked for a second date, to which I agreed. You put a good steak in front of me, I'm a happy girl.

Lucky for me, Pierres Roulantes has a hanger steak special ($19) this night. I ask for rare, but the waiter rightly puts it in as "medium rare," telling me they'll serve it up blue if you ask for rare. Sliced for you, juicy, chewy, dark red and meaty, served with a boutonniere of dressed greens and plenty of fries. It's a meatlover's cut, not for a prissy fillet fan. Freshly ground pepper is offered. Spicing the steak are sweetly caramelized roasted shallots, teensy bits of tomato and a flavor-filled red wine sauce, the depth of which reveals the consummate pro in the kitchen.

My companion insists he is too full for dessert, for even one bite. Chocolate mousse ($6) is served on a platter in two mounds, perhaps since I said we were sharing. The globe closest to my "too full" date mysteriously disappears in short order. (I mean I think the glaze on the china plate has been scraped off.) Tiny unseen bits of semisweet chocolate within the rich dark creme melt almost instantly in your mouth. Bittersweet chocolate is piped artfully over the dish and confectioner's sugar and sliced strawberries adorn. I see an almost frisbee-sized strawberry tart, a special, pass by.

Designer folk at a nearby table attempt to chat up the waiter. He retains his cheerful yet professional demeanor. Luxurious heavyweight coupes of champagne garnished with slices of strawberry arrive "on the house" and leave us in good spirits.

As we're leaving, "Brown Sugar" comes on again. The solely Stones and Beatles soundtrack has been fun, and it's a good gimmick for opening week, but this is the type of place you'll dine at regularly, so hopefully they'll shake up the mix a bit. There's nothing new going on here menu-wise, no foam or reconstructed 60s snack cakes, just bistro classics made with quality ingredients and exceptional execution, served in a completely cozy-world away. You can live it up with entrees and champagne or dine quite reasonably on salads, soup, sandwiches and of course those stellar fries. Light dining in the bar, with pleasant service. There's brunch, an early bird prix-fixe menu, and this spot continues to cater to midnight ramblers?the kitchen is open till 4 a.m.

We want to walk off the generous portions, but step into spitting rain and so take refuge at a nearby bar. The big biker-type bouncer points to us: "IDs." He scrutinizes mine a long while, then scrutinizes me. "Okay, I need to see your real ID."

"That is my real ID."

"Right. Let's see your real ID."

"Hey, I like that. Ya wanna get married?"

"Nah. Been there, done that."

Why will no one in this town marry me? The bartender looks like Daniel Stern, but is called Grimace. What plays on the speakers? "Brown Sugar." When my date gets up to use the facilities, I ask the guy on the other side of me, "Did you say you want to change your name?" He looks at me for a moment, then says, "No, I didn't say it, but it's strange that you said that because I am thinking about changing it." It turns out he has one of those names with too many syllables and too few vowels and has already had his son's last name changed.

Post-nightcap, we grab a cab out of the rain. At home we attempt to put on some music. Between me and my date it would seem we'd have the combined IQ to solve most of the world's ills. In actuality, we're unable to get the CD player working because the receiver is set to PHONO. Luckily for me, he figures it out eventually; had I been alone, I probably would have had to buy a new receiver. My date issues scornfully, "Coupla geniuses." Again, no argument here. On a schoolnight we continue our date till 7 a.m. (that means it's a good date, right?) when he realizes what time it is with a start and stomps around my apartment gathering his stuff and cursing a blue streak. He gives me a kiss goodbye and says he'll call. I believe that he will.

Pierres Roulantes Bistro, 21 W. 9th St. (betw. 5th & 6th Aves.), 995-2168.