THE GRUMP DINES OUT

When the Reluctant Gourmet reads this, he’s going to be upset. My excuse is that I couldn’t think of any other way to prove that he really exists. The average Angeleno is so enamored of eating out that few will believe there is actually someone who turns down free meals to sit in front of the television and drip pizza on the couch.

I am invariably accused of having made my dining grump up. While I’ll admit it was sneaky of me not to tell him what I was doing, I didn’t want him to know he was being closely watched. So I merely asked him to spend a week eating out with me, and then sat back and watched what happened.

MONDAY

Monday night football is sacred to the RG; the only way to get him to go out to dinner is by promising him a treat. This is not that difficult; the RG is such a stargazer that Nicky Blair’s turned the trick. The one time he was at the restaurant, he saw so many celebrities that he came away thrilled. The food wasn’t much but the RG didn’t care; he was in Hollywood Heaven. For this he agreed to forgo football.

But by 5 o’clock, football fever had him in its grip, and he called to say that on second thought. . . . In his sweetest voice, he cajoled me into canceling the reservations and cooking him dinner. “And afterwards,” he said, “I’ve got the most wonderful coffee you’ve ever tasted.”

He had bought it at the new Graffeo Coffee in Beverly Hills. Recently arrived from San Francisco, the shop does roast the most delicious coffee I’ve tasted in Los Angeles. Whether it is delicious enough to make hasty pasta and football taste better than celebrity dining at Nicky Blair’s I have yet to decide. The RG had no problem with this one: “This is the best dinner I’ve eaten in weeks,” he announced as he downed his third cup of coffee.

Graffeo, 315 N. Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills, (213) 273-0817.

TUESDAY

Tonight my ploy was to invite some of the RG’s friends to join us for dinner. After all, he can hardly expect me to entertain his friends without him. “Can we take them someplace fancy?” he pleaded, clearly anxious to impress. “Is the Bistro fancy enough?” I replied.

Fancy it is--but surprisingly homey too. It was all so cozy and warm that even the RG unbent. He was momentarily unhappy when he started to ease out of his jacket only to have the waiter slip it instantly back up on his shoulders, but he assuaged his sorrows by demolishing the warm cheese bread and eating most of the bowl of radishes, celery and olives. Meanwhile, I struggled to find an affordable wine on the list.

It took 10 minutes for the waiter to get around to taking our wine order, and another 10 before he condescended to open it. Then he poured it around the table before I had a chance to taste it. But what I liked even less was his giving orders to the busboy over our heads. Neither the RG nor his friends noticed this--they were too busy noticing the quality of the food. The RG was tucking into a good green salad with a beautifully balanced dressing. His friends were happy with a simple and perfectly cooked plate of capellini with tomato sauce and an absolutely impeccable bowl of onion soup. Meanwhile I devoured an order of wonderful clams casino, the freshly cooked clams sprinkled with bacon and lemon.

When the main courses came, the RG remarked that his $16 burger “has got to be the most expensive hamburger I’ve ever eaten, and it doesn’t even have a bun.” But even he had to admit that the meat was first-rate. A steak was also up to snuff but, despite the high quality of the ingredients, I found both the red snapper and the duck overcooked, the vegetables (carrots and green beans) predictable.

To my surprise, the RG insisted on ordering a chocolate souffle for dessert. “Well, what else would you order in a place like this?” he said with an air of erudition. For a moment, I wondered if I had made a convert.

The Bistro, 246 N. Canon Drive, Beverly Hills, (213) 273-5633. Dinner for two, food only, about $75.

WEDNESDAY

No such luck. Although I had chosen a restaurant he claimed he’d always wanted to try, a place where he could eat steak and see stars, the RG called at 4 o’clock to say that nothing on Earth will make him get into a suit again for dinner. “But it’s Chasen’s,” I say. He doesn’t care.

And so my hastily recruited friend and I spent most of the evening cursing him. It’s not that Chasen’s food is bad--it’s just that for the money we were spending we could have eaten almost anywhere. “Even the drama of dining isn’t quite right,” said Chris, noticing that despite the frantic racing around of dozens of waiters, busboys and captains we had a hard time getting our order taken. When he brought our Caesar salad to the table, the waiter made a big show of mixing and tossing and putting too much cheese on the lettuce--but he ladled the dressing out of a bowl instead of making it at the table. For $7.50 per person, I want to see my egg coddled, want to watch as it breaks over the leaves of lettuce.

I had deviled beef bones; she had saddle of lamb. Neither was wonderful and both came with tired vegetables. We watched as the people at the next table were served the much-vaunted hobo steak, a thick piece of meat wrapped and tied in fat, covered with a layer of salt and cooked under the salamander. It is then brought into the dining room, sliced and cooked in a lot of butter over a roaring fire. It smelled to me like the butter was burning, and I was glad I hadn’t ordered it.

Still, it was a perfect place to get into the holiday spirit. Everything was red and green, and pine boughs were everywhere. “It looks,” said Chris, “like the set for ‘White Christmas.’ I expect to see Bing Crosby stroll in any minute.”

“And speaking of that,” said the RG the next day, “did you see any celebrities?” We hadn’t; the RG said he was glad he hadn’t come.

Chasen’s, 9039 Beverly Blvd., L.A., (213) 271-2168. Dinner for two, food only, about $80. THURSDAY

“Please don’t make me eat out tonight,” said the RG on the telephone, “and I promise I’ll go anywhere you choose tomorrow.” We finally compromised on barbecue-to-go. Deciding to make the best of the opportunity, I got barbecue from my two favorite places and took them home to see how they stacked up.

Mr. Jim’s has four locations; the one I chose is as clean and slick as a fast-food joint. The cans of soda were lined up regimentally, and the woman behind the counter had nails so long she could barely punch the cash register. Only the smoke in the air betrayed the true ‘cue soul. Carl’s, on the other hand, has maintained its lived-in look despite a recent move. The air was rich with smoke and the guy behind the counter kept smiling and telling jokes as he sliced meat and sauced ribs.

The RG practically tore the meat from the packages. “Now this is eatin’,” he enthused, red sauce dripping down his chin. I asked him to slow down long enough to determine which he liked best. He stopped for a second, considered, pointed out that Mr. Jim’s sauce has spice behind the sweetness and a backlash of real sting. Then he took another bite and gave Mr. Jim’s his ultimate accolade: “This tastes like St. Louis barbecue.”

I, of course, differed. Although I thought Mr. Jim’s sauce had more character, I like barbecue to be so hot that it burns, and in my opinion both sauces were entirely too timid. But I prefered Carl’s chewy ribs to Mr. Jim’s, which are cooked until they practically fall from the bone. “You’re wrong,” said the RG flatly. “You may know a lot about those fancy joints, but when it comes to barbecue I’m the authority. And you can never cook barbecue too much.” So saying, he took another decisive chomp on a rib.

Carl’s, 5953 E. Pico Blvd., (213) 934-0637. Dinner for two, about $15; Mr. Jim’s, 3809 S. Vermont Ave., (213) 731-5453. Dinner for two, about $15.

FRIDAY

Since the RG had sworn not to let me down, I dragged him to L’Orangerie. Even he had to admit that this is a room that lifts your spirits; it is impossible to walk into that bower of golden light and soft music, flowers and rich people without feeling like you have been touched by a wand.

The candlelight is gorgeous. The service is serene. There is a sommelier who gives good advice (suggesting, for example, a less expensive wine than the one you contemplated). The rolls are warm, the food is luxurious. I may have little quibbles with some of the dishes--the dressing on my artichoke, truffle (lots of truffle) and asparagus salad overwhelmed the truffles, I thought, and I found the monkfish very overcooked. But, overall, the food was superb--from the RG’s seasonal salad and rib of beef (“You like simple food, sir,” said the waiter), to a silky terrine of foie gras on a bed of mesclun and a very appealing skate wing served with mushroom mousse and baby corn. This struck me as a cuisine of inspired combination rather than rich sauces, and I found the food delightful.

“What did you think?” I asked the RG. “I don’t know why anyone would want to spend that much money for dinner,” he said grumpily. “But if they’re going to, I guess that’s the place to do it. Frankly, the best part of the meal for me was passing Rod Stewart on the way out.”

L’Orangerie, 903 N. La Cienega Blvd., L.A., (213) 652-9770. Dinner for two, food only, about $100.

SATURDAY

“If you want me to eat out tonight,” announced the RG, “we’re going to a restaurant of my choice.” Where the RG wanted to go---where he always wants to go--is Angeli.

“What do you like so much about the restaurant?” I asked as we walked into the bright, loud, attractive room. “Everything,” he said. “The way it looks. The fact that it doesn’t take a long time to eat here. The reasonable prices. The friendliness of the people who work here. But most of all the food.”

This is not food that is easy to dislike. It is simple and consistently good. Little crisp pizzas come with all manner of wonderful toppings. Soups and salads are always fresh. There is a well-roasted chicken and pasta that actually tastes the way it does in Italy. But what the RG likes best is the tagliatelle Bolognese . “Why don’t you learn to cook this?” he asked, his mouth full of the rich meaty mixture. That was an easy one to answer. “Because if I did,” I replied, “you’d never want to go out to eat.”

Angeli, 7274 Melrose Ave., West Hollywood, (213) 936-9086. Dinner for two, food only, about $25.