Svenningsen's

Svenningsen's

"I'm just waiting for Con Ed. They gotta hook up the gas so I can get cooking."

"Oh...we can't wait for those lobster rolls."

"I'm ready to go! It's just Con Ed. Pleeeese call back soon."

The man was offering seafood mere blocks away, so of course I did. A couple of Fridays later, despite newness, the joint is jammed. I'm told without a reservation we have a 25-minute wait for a table for two. We slide into the only seats left in the bar, at a round table close by another. Good thing we don't take up much space.

Have you noticed the bars are still crowded, even midweek, the pubs especially?your nonexistent bonus check ain't gonna cover that plasma flatscreen, but you can still swing some pitchers for yourself and your pals. Plus we're still at code-orange alert and just sitting here waiting for a "spectacular" attack. So drink up!

The Svenningsen's crowd could only be found in midtown New York. Mostly nabe workers and some friends of the owner's. Dark clothing, shopping bags, cellphones, open daytimers and paperwork brought inside. Faces wear the work of the week. These people have been desperate for a seafood place. Or any place; if you're not in the mood for Korean, the immediate area is a bit of a dead zone. The bar is loaded up with martinis. Brass and blond wood have been pressed into service in a seafaring theme. Decor is composed of lanterns, boating scenes, ceiling fans, mirrors and congratulatory balloons and plants. Oversized glasses of goldfish crackers on the bar continue the motif.

Three near us are tempted by the menu and decide to dine in the bar; a peppered thick enticing New York sirloin that looks like it would be a workout to carry heads their way. I see a meat-packed lobster roll with french fries land on the bar. "The best sandwich in the world," according to the delivery menu. A crab roll is offered here too?"The 2nd best sandwich in the world."

We sip some wine while we wait. A glass of Washington Hogue Fume Blanc ($6) is unfinished and thin; a better choice, the Californian Robert Mondavi Merlot ($6) is smooth and tobacco-y. A handful of moderately priced wines is offered here, a couple of champagnes and of course a few beers.

Not yet a well-oiled machine, service is a bit discombobulated, but cheerful and energetic. The airy dining room is not fancy, but pleasant. There's a mantel with family photos, mauve banquettes lining a wall and a tempting tank full of lobsters. The last time I picked out my own lobster was in St. Barth's. It was at an off-the-beaten-path spot that had been recommended by a Parisian transplant. We'd have never found it on our own. Even with directions, we navigated our mini-moke into a couple of front yards. Thank God Diane's a longtime offroader; she did all the driving during our stay, climbing the highest hills and barreling around hairpins in a concerted effort to terrify me. I can't drive a stick. (An old boyfriend had raised his voice to me only twice in seven years?once when he had a high fever, so bad he said his hair hurt, and once when he unsuccessfully tried to teach me to drive a manual. Using his new car.)

After we'd found the place, we plopped into chairs in a warm dining room and almost immediately two couples came in. The women were on the petite side. I jumped up to grab our waiter and pulled Diane out of her chair, so we could go out back and pick our lobsters before the other women snagged the smaller ones. They were from Boston and living it up with champagne. The men dined on the biggest lobsters I have ever seen?far too big for the plates. The girls couldn't finish their largish lobsters. I almost felt guilty when they sent us over some rum vanilles.

After the dinner hour, the host put some dance music on and everyone got on their feet, including the waiters. We'd met the restaurant recommender at the little bar at our eight-unit motel. I'd neglected to rent a car for our first night. We'd walked to a small grocery so I could get a phone card. They didn't carry phone cards, but they did have cheeses and pates I'd only seen in gourmet stores. They called for a cab to take us to Gustavia for dinner, but all the cabs on the island were taken for the evening. I stood there uncomprehending. They told us to hitch. We went back to the motel and there were two handsome men at the bar, who after overhearing our dilemma offered to take us into town on their scooters. While they were both good-looking, I noticed that one looked like James Dean, only cooler, tanned with deep aqua eyes. I chose his scooter to jump on the back of, sandals in hand. Diane had predicted the guys would want to show off, and as soon as we hit the main road, my new French friend took off, both of us waving and saying "Bye-bye" as we passed the other scooter. They couldn't catch us. I could feel how strong he was, negotiating the crazy hairpins and steep up-and-downs and my weight and going fast; I was holding on to him so tight I don't know how he could breathe. Fortunately, I had a French-English dictionary in my luggage, which was put to good use during the rest of the week.

At Svenningsen's, we're seated by a piano player and a jazz singer. Old standards?"Ain't Misbehavin'," "Our Love Is Here to Stay," "Lush Life." With the black and white tiny-tiled floor and the chatty locals, feels like old New York. Snapping fingers to the music, the red-suited woman next to me says, "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Diners applaud and the bar hoots after each number. A waitress can't help but dance. The duo plays till 9.

Modernized hurricane lamps light the white-clothed tables. We're started with a short and sweet blueberry muffin. An appetizer of half-dollar-sized smoky-tasting portobello mushroom caps ($8.50) are piled high with flaked spiced crabmeat spiked with just a bit of onion. The portobellos and crab aren't necessarily a match made in heaven, but both elements are tasty and they don't detract from each other. A bit of mayo-based dressing on the plate adds lushness. Other appetizers include stuffed cherrystones ($9.50) and baby spinach salad ($5.50) with cranberries, bacon and hard-boiled eggs.

Entree plates are loaded up. Two huge seafood crepes ($17.50) have baby shrimps spilling out of them. Within are bites of what the menu says should be lobster, but look and taste to me like sweet whitefish?just enough to add flavor and texture and not overwhelm?and sea scallops, enveloped in satiating white wine and lemon sauce. A parsley chiffonade is sprinkled over. The crepe itself is perfection, buttery golden just-browned in spots, as good as you'll find at a creperie. It comes with a side of nutty but lackluster wild rice pilaf. A rich, plentiful dish. Some entrees come with boiled new potatoes instead of the rice.

Two crabcakes ($18.50) are pure crabmeat, peppery and spicy with the thinnest crisped coating; they are so freakin' good. Accompanying are brilliant green crisp-tender broccoli so sinfully buttered even 41 might like it, a couple of inches of very sweet corn on the cob and the pilaf.

There are daily specials like a cold seafood salad platter ($16.50) of fresh Maine lobster, jumbo shrimp, lump crabmeat, baby greens and veggies, or a platter of fried fresh Ipswich clams ($13.50). Preparations excel, though a higher grade of shellfish may be found at the seafood palaces in town (at palatial prices); the quality here is in line with a neighborhood place.

"I went to school in Maine, worked my way through school working summers on boats and in restaurants..." is overheard.

The dessert menu makes it real tough to skip the sugar here. A pretty plate of strawberry shortcake ($5.50) has a split biscuit filled and topped with plenty of fresh real whipped cream and hunks of sweet berries. A syrupy ruby coulis is drizzled about. The saltiness of the biscuit against the sweet strawbs and the sheer generosity of mounds of whipped cream keep this an American favorite. The menu lists rice pudding, chocolate cake and key lime pie as some other possibilities. Decaf ($2) is a full nutty brew and refills are offered in a timely manner.

Matthew brings the check. "Girls, it has been completely my pleasure tonight."

A quick walk home and my dining companion has a composite view of me and a picture on my foyer wall. "You know, she does look like you." It's a caricature by Sam Norkin. ("Theater.Ink: The Art of Sam Norkin," with more than 200 drawings, is on display at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts.) I'd said, "Wow, thanks, Sam. I can't believe you did that so quick." He'd started to talk to me about contrasting art techniques, because sometimes I look like someone who would understand such things, but I don't. As noted, it's true we look similar, but she's different from me. She has never ventured out of midtown or paid retail. She says cute things like "Wubblewoo" for "W," and "Pass the horses dovers." She's probably a garmento, a coordinator for a synthetic sweater manufacturer. Bright, not brilliant. She drinks hard stuff after work. She takes a yearly vacation in the islands. She's concerned with good grooming and family; she's untroubled by global warming or overpopulation. I'd like her, but she'd find me too odd and slovenly to be a best friend. She's a native New Yorker, born and bred. She'd be happy about Svenningsen's opening.

Svenningsen's, 292 5th Ave. (betw. 30th & 31st Sts.), 465-1888.