CHIANTI: RESPITE FROM ROUGH PATCH

It’s been a rough few weeks. First, greasy food at a new Thai place, then an awful Indian meal at another new place. Next, a really terrible dinner in the Valley at a place that had the look and feel of an empty 747 night flight, with generic nouvelle food that no respectable airplane would serve. Last, an infuriatingly expensive meal at a new steak joint where the meat, like the rose in the bud vase, looked great but wasn’t the real article.

Should I name these places, or just let them die their inevitable slow deaths? According to a recent letter from a non-fan (she calls me scathing, sarcastic, unfair, derisive), I should never write about restaurants again. Was it the restaurants, or was it me? I need a point of reference. Also, a decent meal.

I called Chianti ( fondato , the menu says, in 1938). “Two, please, for 7:30 or 8, Saturday night,” I said.

“Sorry,” I was told. “6:30 or 9.”

I phoned the Thin Man, a worldly friend who knows his way around a martini and a reservation desk. Minutes later, he called back.

“7:30,” he said. “It’s all set.”

“How did you do it?” I asked.

“We all have different talents,” he said, adding, “You have to be aggressive with these people.”

I dressed in silk. He wore a tie. The place was beautiful, as dark and hushed as the Cucina next door is bright and clamorous. It seemed a wonderful refuge from 1986 L.A., all dark wood, luminous white tablecloths, etched glass and murals of nighttime sylvan scenes (I swear I saw a painting of an elk), a sort of elegant hunting lodge of an Italian restaurant.

The Thin Man, meanwhile, was irritated. The room was anything but full: “6:30 or 9,” he said. “Hah!”

But it was impossible to stay edgy for long. Napkins were unfurled by waiters in tuxedos. Wine was poured, an elegant cold martini served. Tableside preparation--though there was a lot of it going on up and down this long, narrow room--was done unobtrusively with a minimum of hoopla. The guests, not the restaurant, were the focus. People looked elegant in the candlelight. Women seemed to glow.

The food, however, did its part. To a pair of lovebirds side by side in a nearby banquette, waiters served a gorgeous veal chop (charcoal grilled, the menu said, with sage and butter) and scampi that shone like pearls (in a brandy, lemon, garlic and parsley sauce). Across the room, a foursome raised their glasses in a toast. Imagine. An entire dinner in Los Angeles without “Happy Birthday” being sung once.

By now, the restaurant was full, if not jammed, and at our table we were soon as witty and delightful with each other as Nick and Nora Charles themselves. We’d shared an appetizer of marinated grilled eggplant filled with goat cheese, arugula and sun-dried tomatoes (the filling delicious, the eggplant somewhat undercooked and tough), tortelloni filled with lobster (wonderful pasta, tough lobster) in deliciously buttery saffron sauce, and angel-hair pasta with tomatoes, basil and garlic, a very nice rendition of this simple but difficult dish.

I was feeling particularly clever because I’d ordered that night’s special, duck in an herb sauce, a perfect choice for the cold, misty night. And it was spectacular, probably the best duck I’ve ever had, dark and juicy, crisp and rich. The herb sauce was a wonderful change from the sweet gooey stuff these old-fashioned restaurants usually throw on duck.

The Thin Man was eating an austere Dover sole (that’s how he stays Thin, I suppose), perfectly criss-crossed by the grill, expertly boned tableside. Both entrees were accompanied by tiny zucchini, sauteed eggplant and a small cube of crema fritta (semolina mixed with orange and lemon peel, nutmeg and Grand Marnier, deep fried). The waiter said the thing contained enzymes that cut grease. I didn’t care what it did--it was delicious.

The meal ended with strong, mellow espresso, good, if not great tiramisu and a chocolate meringue cake that disappeared from the Thin Man’s plate so quickly that I have only his word that it was nice and light.

The tab hovered at around $100 (this, with a bottle of good, earthy Barolo), which seemed a bargain considering the comfortable surroundings, the faultless service, the good, very good and excellent food, and the fact that the previous week’s steak ripoff had cost the same amount. It’s an intimate, celebratory place. No wonder Chianti’s has lasted so long.

Chianti, 7383 Melrose Ave., West Hollywood, (213) 653-8333. Open for dinner nightly. Mastercard, Visa, American Express accepted. Full bar. Valet parking. Dinner for two, food only, $45-$80.