A TOUCH OF CALIFORNIA AT BISTANGO

“I see aspiration,” the woman across the table says, “the pink, symbolizing happiness, is moving upward, away from the gray-blue.”

No psychic adviser reading my fortune for the New Year, my mother, fresh from the County Museum of Art’s “The Spiritual in Art” is explicating the placement at Bistango as we order lunch. Out from the Big Apple for the holidays, the folks are helping me do a Big Orange review and are looking for clues everywhere. “The flatware’s pretty crummy for such a nice- looking place,” Pop says, “but the tables are solid--soft pine or spruce.” “These blond caned chairs,” my mother adds, “are just a little too low slung. And I think you should write that the music is too loud.” “This is nothing,” I say.

Mom has decided on the $12.50 prix fixe lunch and is admiring the art that I find nondescript, while Pop, already settled on the bourride (fish soup) and Chinese chicken salad, is beguiled by the designer pizza that has just gone by. I tell my sweet-toothed father to save room for dessert since that’s Bistango’s ace-in-the-hole.

Never have we seen a waiter beam so. “That’s my favorite,” he says to every single dish we want. (He’s so delightful that when we hear him repeat this at the next table, we laugh at his generous heart.) He never forgets us for a minute and brings extra plates unbidden when he sees we dine en famille.

Mom has a more delicate appetite than Pop and I do, and she finds the portions are too large. Still, it’s generous of her to share the gorgeously creamy smoked mozzarella plate. Pop enjoys the hearty rich bourride topped with aioli and filled with chunks of whitefish, then correctly guesses all the greens in the five-lettuce salad. I wish the kitchen had remembered to put the oily vinaigrette on the side. The Chinese chicken salad, built high with lettuce, ginger and white meat, is monochromatic in looks and taste: too white and too drowned in sesame oil.

The gently grilled baby salmon with sun-dried tomatoes is a superior introduction to California cuisine. Mom thinks it’s a good value too. It’s the pizza, however, that takes the prize. Pop’s a ratatouille man from way back but he’s never tasted it quite like this. Thin crusted, with jolts of garlic and riotously colored yellow, green and red peppers, the ratatouille pizza is superb.

Dessert is . . . well, maybe it’s no longer Bistango’s ace-in-the-hole. The special photographic dessert menu is mouthwatering and 1950ish but the clafoutis and the creme caramel left us high and dry. The big fat cherries in the former don’t disguise a curdled texture and tough crust and the island of perfectly fine creme caramel comes submerged under a too-sweet syrup moat.

Another evening, after a day at MOCA, we head back to Bistango for a leisurely supper and Mom looks at the abstract place mats from another critical point of view. Pop peruses the lengthy wine list.

We begin with a seafood sausage, set on crisp sauteed capers; it looks like boudin blanc to me, but this scallop-salmon-whitefish combination is a gossamer dream. We all agree that the large offering of silky mussels in a luminous Pernod broth would suffice for a great late-night meal and concur that the ginger duck confit lacks ginger and its surround of black beans are oily to boot.

The swordfish king finds his thin plank of fish undistinguished. Mom loves her juicy rack of lamb cooked exactly to taste. It’s another big serving, and she takes home a doggy bag. (“Does one do that in California?” she asks.) The baby vegetables, prettily served, are bright, crisp ambassadors to the state. I enjoy the smoked chicken calzone, big as a football, stuffed full of leeks, cheese, cilantro and lots of fragrant meat. This would make a copious portion for two.

Well, we’d have to give those desserts another try. Mom couldn’t bear anything but the fruit cup (“Tell them it’s very fresh but there are not enough raspberries and too many grapes”). Pop and I investigate two of the more caloric desserts. The tarte au citron, filled with gloppy lemon curd, is veiled with a leatherette meringue. Pop’s in heaven with the Coupe Bistango, a gargantuan adult sundae made with homemade ice cream.

Bistango is fun, the service is kind, the rooms are spacious and it’s open late. This is not a shrine for a religious eating experience but at least one person I know found the spiritual in ice cream.

Bistango, 133 N. La Cienega Blvd., (213) 652-7788. Open daily for lunch and dinner. Pizza and dessert served until 1 a.m. All major credit cards. Valet parking. Dinner for two: (food only), $30-$70.