Pipa's Dishes Are Pretty, Elegant Little Gifts

"Do they have clothes here?" "No." She holds up a darkest blue silk shantung wraparound shirt.

"This looks like clothes."

I have to concede that it does look a lot like clothes. I admire a long brown flowing dress with mesh sides; an underwear problem.

She turns. "Look. Little clothes." Blocky clothing for very small people hangs on racks near the jewelry counter. She doesn't like the sparkly Star of David pendants. "I don't like advertising." Although she has to agree they're pretty.

"I don't know what it means," I confess.

Her voice rises. "The Star of David?" Like I'm an idiot. Then, "Oh. Neither do I."

Then down the steps at ABC Carpet & Home, we find Pipa.

Unbearably slow service had kept me out of its previous incarnation. The restaurant across from it has changed names as well. I had attended the opening party for its predecessor. I recall they got a bit backed up at the bar and angry alcoholic press types caused something close to riot conditions. I ate there another time, and when I was leaving the waiter ran to smush his face and hands up against the inside of the window as I passed. Which I found amusing, but my date did not.

Tonight, it's an evening where the temperature isn't cool, isn't warm, you can't feel where your body is apart from the air so you must dine outside. Inside Pipa, both wax and electric candles sprinkle the dark room with myriad pinpoints of white light. We pass through the mix of rococo chandeliers for sale, seashells and concrete sculpture, to the 19th St. sidewalk seating. A cheerless, turquoise-tanktopped hostess is less than pleasant, but not rude. Another hostess with a much nicer, bustling vibe spots her later.

At the table, a tall African daisy greets us. A ravier of tiny Spanish olives with a few bigger fleshy ones thrown in arrives immediately. The menu says "Tapas y Mas," and the wine list is big. The whimsical seafood-heavy menu overwhelms and puts us in a chattering state of hungry anticipation. There's more on the other side?! What to order? How many dishes? I'm drawn to the "little fishes" sector of the menu. Our dimpled, fresh-faced waiter knows the answers to everything we ask about the wines and small plates. We select four.

One day, during the summer just after college, I made tapas for some girlfriends. The recipes I had were mostly mayonnaise-coated and deep-fried, or involved canned fish, but tasted pretty good considering. It was a great day, bay beach in the afternoon and stuffing our faces in the evening. But my mom whispered to me at one point that there had been some tension between the artist and the writer, which was later broken by a joke from one of them. Which stuck in my mind, until that day, as I had never anticipated that friends of mine might not get along.

The odd thing is that, years later, the writer married the artist's ex-boyfriend. Clairvoyant much? Years after that they were divorced. I've known him since we were 17; he had been too wild for me to date. When I saw him a couple of years after his divorce, I could see how broken up about it he was. And the latest developments sounded to me like she had left the door open. I implored him to beg her to take him back, to do anything she asked; have babies, anything. He said into his beer, no, that she had hurt his pride. Men.

On that same visit I told him I'd learned that if you date someone for six months and are not sure if you want to marry that person, then you should never marry that person. Seven months later he frantically questioned me, as though I were the Oracle, regarding his new girlfriend. "We've been together for six months. You think I've got to dump her soon?" That's not what I said!

I resist Pipa's house blood orange Molotov cocktail, as it comes rimmed with a crush of wet scarlet sugar crystals and I tend to get the garniture of similarly edged martinis all over my face, then, fueled by alcohol, expound on my undergraduate knowledge of the antebellum period. But our blue-eyed, bleached-blond neighbor drinks it neatly, and he has a mustache. He must like it, as he advises his drinking companion to order the same upon his arrival.

A few wines by the glass are available for $7-$12. With such a big list, it would be nice to have more, although there are some half-bottles listed too. Also some sherries. Sangria by the pitcher. An Amstel Light costs seven bucks. We settle on glasses of oak-raised Crianza Calderona '96 ($7), which has a syrupy heft, medium dryness; juicy and grapey, but not unfinished. Thankfully, I haven't hit the old Iberian mustiness in some years; the Spaniards have upgraded their barrels.

Manhattanites abound outside; an attractive crowd of grownups. Flatiron after-work groups stream inside. Two wiry women with severe black pixie haircuts smoke nearby. One in a black Moulin Rouge tee. My companion discusses her thesis on utopia/dystopia culminating in Lara Croft. I can't even pretend to understand.

Our order arrives in a flurry. The Pipa Coca (meaning open-faced) ($13) is a thin-crust pizza, but it's not crackery; there's a soft puff to it. This coca has plenty of Manchego and red soft tomato sauce, fragrant with rosemary. The chorizo on it is nicely homogenized?no gristle or harsh spices standing alone within it. A nice-sized portion, and easily shared. Best eaten at once, as the cheese quickly stiffened.

Boquerones ($12) are rolls of pickley marinated fresh anchovies atop a thin raft of chewy, milky queso blanco carpeted with overlapping sliced almonds. Two small dollops of candied garlic dressing adorn the white plate. One bite and in blasts a tingling sea chill. Surprisingly small portion, but it's a triple-protein punch. A bouquet of mache provides some delicate dippers for the candied condiment.

I spy a serving of assorted meats?many slices overlapping to a rose-shaped crescendo in the center of the plate. But at my own table are piggyback dates ($8). A large blanched almond in a plump date rolled in smoky bacon on mild Belgian endive adhered to the dish by a Cabrales cheese cream. Doesn't that sound awful? It's not. Sweet sticky date up against the salty meat, then you find the firmness of the nut and... Is that strong cheese on my tongue? The cherry lights are whirling, the sirens are sounding... Warning: approaching sensory overload...

The hotly spiced bacalao cake ($10) is a disc of compacted strands of shredded cod served with a thick Russian dressing. Here we've come to the perfect peppery accompaniment to the wine. The cod cake is accessorized with ripe cherry tomatoes and a fan of matchstick chives. Yes, a small plate, but the big hot flavor and densely packed, meaty fish compensates. This nosherai is deceptively filling. Traditionally, tapas sat atop your beverage to keep the bugs out of it, and gave you a spicy incentive to order more drinks. There were no flies on 19th St., but I would have ordered a second glass if the dimpled one had checked in.

Our runner is a pillar of professionalism, extremely attentive. Ice water appears without our having asked, crumbs we've littered the table with are removed before coffee. A charming pot is brought and poured, left for us, but repoured as we drain our cups. This batch is a shade overextended, but the blend is a cut above your standard restaurant roast.

Glow from the approaching sunset renders passersby orange. A Japanese woman wielding a camcorder stops to pan the scene. When one of the pixies excuses herself, the slighter of the two buttons a white cropped denim jacket against the oncoming night chill; she leans back with doe eyes, a little girl lost.

We ask the waiter for coffee, decaf, and something sweet. He takes our order and returns a few minutes later to ask if we'd like coffee with that.

Out of the three desserts he had ticked off, we chose brazo gitano, a Spanish jelly roll ($8). A thin, expertly rolled slice is brought. "Enjoy," we're told. Whorls of strawberry sauce paint the plate. Melt-in-my-mouth vanilla sponge masked with a crunch of chopped nuts. I find a drop of yummy guava gelee, but there's not enough painted within the moist pale-yellow cake to make any impact. I'm left craving more of the viridescent goo. The supposedly lemon cream filling is sucral and flavorless, resulting in a roll too sweet to order again.

By peak dinnertime, all seats outside are taken and all but one by women; perhaps it takes a lot of these expensive little plates to satisfy a man. My companion teases a big blond who rolls up to his bike, then ties his skates to the handlebars and prepares to ride away.

"Anything on wheels," he explains. "Do you skate?"

"I sit," she responds. His wish is that we "both have a very wonderful evening."

The bottom of the check says "GRACIAS." Pipa's not cheap, but it's a relatively inexpensive way to experience Doug Rodriguez's cooking. Each dish is a little gift, a figurine just so, an elaborate, prettily composed present designed just for you from the chef. Pues, Sr. Jefe, encantada. Aprecio sus regalos.

Pipa, 38 E. 19th St. (betw. Park Ave. S. & Broadway), 677-2233.