$100 DINNER : $100 APIECE IS PAR FOR THE COURSES

Seventh Street Bistro, 815 West 7th St., Los Angeles, (213) 627-1242. “Special gourmet dinners” are served Sunday through Wednesday only, for no more than 20 people at a seating. Meals, consisting of six courses and all wines, change weekly. Reservations essential. Valet parking. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner for two: $200. “Six courses!” said the Reluctant Gourmet. “Not on your life. It will take you at least three hours to eat.”

Actually, it took just over four.

“One hundred dollars?” said the playwright I invited in his stead. “You mean for both of us, don’t you?” I told him that actually no, the meal was $100 apiece. “But that includes the wines,” I added.

“Oh, in that case . . . ,” he replied. Then he added, a bit anxiously I thought, “You are planning on paying for me?” I assured him that I was, and he agreed to meet me at the Seventh Street Bistro for one of their special gourmet dinners.

“Why would someone want to spend this much money for a meal when they didn’t even know what they were going to get to eat or drink?” the playwright was asking as we sat down at a table festooned with glasses. Just then the waiter appeared flourishing a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Champagne. With a grand gesture, he presented the bottle to my friend. The playwright nodded, the waiter popped the cork, the wine flowed. The playwright took a few sips, looked around at the calm gray room, sniffed the arrangement of flowers on the table, gave a contented sigh. He buttered a roll and answered himself. “How nice to go out to eat without worrying about whether you’re going to make a fool of yourself when you order the wine. What a pleasure not to wonder if the waiter thinks you’re an ass for ordering the most expensive dish on the menu, or a cheapskate for ordering the least. This is so relaxing; I feel like a rich person.” He took a bite of the bread. “This may be perfectly ordinary bread and butter, but at the moment it tastes like ambrosia.”

“I wouldn’t eat too much of that if I were you,” I warned; the waiter was approaching with a couple of plates. On each was a golden round of brioche , at its heart a nub of chanterelle-studded foie gras . “This tastes too good,” said the playwright. “I know it must be killing me.” He put his fork into the buttery toasted bread, topped it with a slice of the sensually smooth pate and a look of total happiness crossed his face. He seemed so content with this symphony of richness that I refrained from noting that the pate had strayed slightly into the gray zone and was just a bit overcooked.

The waiter poured out some more Champagne (thereby almost emptying the bottle), then presented the next bottle of wine. He poured some for the playwright, who tasted it with a strange look on his face. He nodded to the waiter but whispered to me, “I don’t know a thing about wine, but I don’t much like this one.” I could see why; it was one of those Meursaults that tastes more like ferns than almonds, somehow managing to have a green yet dusty flavor. It was also extremely cold. “Let it sit a while,” I said. “I think the Champagne will taste better with this course anyway.” The waiter had just set down some beautiful bowls. Each contained a rosy arrangement of lobster and carrots in an intriguingly playful sauce. Variations in the key of licorice: There were slices of fennel under the sauce, anise seeds in it and pale and lacy leaves of chervil sprinkled across the top. “Such luxury,” sighed the playwright, eating the delicate meat.

But more luxury was yet to come. When the waiter reappeared, he was triumphantly bearing a large silver dome. Behind him marched another waiter. They set the plates down in unison, and then with a flourish whisked the domes away. On the plates were lovely coral reefs constructed out of overlapping slices of salmon. They looked serenely simple, but we were to discover that the smooth surface was deceptive. They were actually little surprise packages: Concealed beneath the silken slices of fish was a cloud of airy potato puree thickly carpeted with caviar. The dish was a triumph.

Next, the waiter brought out a sorbet and I couldn’t help grimacing. “What’s wrong?” asked the playwright, who was beyond criticism at this point. To him, every mouthful was a wonder, each dish a new delight. He tasted the ice and said, predictably, “Fabulous.” “I hate sorbets in the middle of a meal,” I said grumpily, putting the tiniest little morsel in my mouth. It was a cool surprise, as bracing as a shock of cold water on a sleepy face. The deep red ice had the clean flavor of grapefruit tempered by red wine and a touch of sugar. “Who could hate this?” murmured my friend. Who indeed?

“Here comes the waiter with more wine,” said the playwright. “A small Bordeaux,” said the waiter airily. He was wrong. It was not a Bordeaux, large or small, but a wine from one of the more modest regions of France. The Cahors vineyards run along the valley of the Lot river, just east of Bordeaux. The wines are hearty and have what the French call “ le gout du terroir “ or “taste of the land.” This ’82 was not an expensive wine, but it had a fine straightforward flavor, perfect after the complexity of everything that had gone before.

The meat course itself was a perfect foil for the wine, a robust way to end the meal. A beautiful filet of beef was topped with mushrooms-- girolles and chanterelles--accompanied by a crunchy galette of potatoes and little bundles of tiny green beans tied up in an onion string. “I can’t remember when I’ve had a better piece of beef,” said my friend. To tell the truth, neither could I.

The Cahors is a friendly wine; we lingered over this course longer than we intended to. But then we were startled to see the waiter appearing with yet another bottle of wine. “I don’t think I can drink any more,” the playwright was protesting, but the waiter merely smiled and poured the wine. “It’s such a small bottle,” he said (it was a half). My friend took a small sip of the Chateau Climens ’81 and, as the honeyed flavor of the golden wine reached him, he said, “Oh my.” We came absurdly close to finishing the bottle. We also came pretty close to finishing the complicated pistachio-studded chocolate box that we were served for dessert, and even made inroads into the little plate of cookies that arrived with the coffee.

We sat down to dinner at 7:30; it was pushing midnight when we left. “I can’t remember having a better, or a longer meal,” said the playwright. “And I can’t think of another restaurant where the service is so attentive.” Still, as I paid the bill, I couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “Would you be willing to pay for this yourself?”

The playwright thought for a long time. “It’s probably a bargain,” he replied, “given the going rate in restaurants. But $100 is an awful lot of money. It would have to be a very special occasion.”