PEPPONE AND IL GIARDINO: NIGHT AND DAY

If there is anything that people in Los Angeles like to eat better than Italian food, it has yet to be discovered. Pasta has conquered the county and spiffy new Italian restaurants keep opening up their doors.

Meanwhile, the old favorites march on. From the style of the food that they serve to the look of the room in which they serve it, these two restaurants could hardly be more different. But they do have one thing in common--they continue to pack ‘em in.

Only one thing bothers the Reluctant Gourmet more than having to get dressed up and go out to eat in some terribly pretentious restaurant: waiting.

Waiting for anything annoys him; waiting for a meal when he’d really rather be home eating pizza makes him positively crazy. And so when I asked if he’d like to come to Peppone, I told him first how much I thought he’d like the place. I talked about its dark, cozy, leather booths and its corny art and its he-man portions. “What’s the catch?” he asked, immediately suspicious. “I have heard,” I said offhandedly, “that they tend to keep people waiting for their tables. . . .”

The RG didn’t blink. “I’ll go,” he said, “but I won’t wait.”

As it turned out, that was the one issue that didn’t come up. We walked into the restaurant and barely had time to look at the signed celebrity pictures on the wall before we were led to one of the booths. “You know what this place reminds me of?” asked the RG. “The old Valentino.”

The resemblance is certainly striking, right down to the Aldo Luongo paintings on the wall. And there is something very familiar about the way the waiters hand you an enormous menu and then stand there for five minutes reciting other dishes that you can have. “Let me get this straight,” said the RG, when the litany was finally finished. “What you’re saying is that basically I can have anything I want, prepared any way I want it?”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter.

What the RG wanted was some minestrone. It was a mistake. “What made me think I wanted this?” he wondered, sampling what was possibly the worst minestrone I have ever tasted. He then went on to a veal chop--I’ve never seen a larger one--drenched in tomato sauce. “I’m not fussy,” said the RG, “but this doesn’t strike me as particularly delicious.”

My own meal began with linguine with clam sauce, an oily, unpleasant version with none of the simplicity and freshness of flavor that makes this dish such a delight. It went on to tiger prawns--three huge ones that were distressingly soft and mealy. We each had a bite and then left the rest. For the most part, the service was pleasant and attentive, but I was puzzled by the fact that nobody ever asked if there was anything wrong with the food as our almost-full plates were removed.

Desserts were equally unimpressive--an overly sweet amaretto mousse and cannoli that were tough and pasty. “Look on the bright side,” said the RG. “The portions were large, the wine list was wonderful--and we didn’t have to wait.”

“In that case,” I asked, “how about coming back with me?”

We did, in fact, go back a couple of weeks later, if only to unravel the mystery of the restaurant’s popularity; it is always packed and reservations are hard to get. I can’t say I understand why. I had fettuccine with what was touted as gorgonzola and porcini mushrooms and turned out to be gorgonzola and prosciutto; I wasn’t thrilled. And my petrale sole was simply sad. Meanwhile, the RG had happily devoured a plate of roasted peppers. “They should be fabulous,” I said, “at that price ($12.50).” And even more happily put away a huge and delicious Porterhouse steak. “I’ve got no complaints,” he said, “but if you’re so displeased, why not try and find a better Italian restaurant?”

“I will,” I replied.

Peppone, 11628 Barrington Court, Brentwood, (213) 476-7379. Open for lunch Monday-Friday, for dinner nightly. Full bar. Parking behind restaurant. All major credit cards. Dinner for two, food only, $45-$100.

Mr. Movie has offered to take me to one of his favorite restaurants, and now he is in his element. He has arrived in his hippest clothes, wearing, of all things, sneakers. “This is where the celebrities really come, when they don’t want the scene of Morton’s or Spago,” he says knowingly. Sure enough, Mr. Movie starts pointing around the room. “That’s a big producer,” he says. He points at someone else, who is working the room. “That’s an actor,” he says. His voice rolls on. “And,” he finishes in an undertone, pointing discreetly to the next table, “you know who that is, don’t you?” I don’t. He looks disgusted. “Neil Simon.”

Il Giardino doesn’t look like the kind of place that would attract stars. It looks, to be honest, like somebody’s rec room that’s been dressed up like a greenhouse. This is the epitome of laid-back chic: There is AstroTurf on the floor and the walls are so insubstantial that it looks like they could fold the set in a couple of hours. On each table, looking like part of the decor, a huge bowl of brightly colored raw vegetables contributes a rustic note.

The service isn’t exactly star caliber either. It is sort of offhand, disdainful. When I order a bottle of wine, the waiter brings it to the table, opens it and begins to pour without ever even showing me the label. When I ask to see it, he looks bored. You get the feeling that the staff hardly cares what you think. And, frankly, with food this good they probably don’t need to.

Mr. Movie wants to share the three-pasta special, which is served only for two. I humor him. It turns out to be penne in a fresh tomato sauce; pleasantly al dente ravioli filled with spinach, topped with clarified butter and sprinkled with cheese, and lovely little gnocchi in a very light gorgonzola sauce. It is a nice trio. “That wasn’t fattening, was it?” asks Mr. Movie, having neatly polished off every bite.

Meanwhile, our companions are eating carpaccio-- the tasty meat has been pounded rather than slivered on a slicer, and then topped with thin slices of raw artichoke heart and flakes of Parmesan cheese. It is a pleasure to eat, as is a fine risotto with porcini , which later turns out to cost a whopping $22. “They should have warned us about the price,” I complain. “Hey,” says Mr. Movie, “if you worry about money, you probably shouldn’t be here.”

He, it is clear, is not about to worry: He has ordered the lobster, despite the fact that it has one of those ominous blanks where the price should be. As Mr. Movie struggles to keep the beautifully grilled crustacean from tumbling off a plate that is far too small to hold it, I wonder what the beast is going to cost me. My own lamb chops, I know, cost $20. They are thin, gamy and come topped with radicchio that has been grilled to bring out its elusively bitter flavor. It is a satisfying plate of food, but the best thing on the table has got to be bronzino , a perfectly delicious fish served simply grilled to a turn. Mr. Movie disagrees. “ These are the best things on the table,” he says, spearing another tiny roasted potato off the platter. “Potatoes aren’t fattening, are they?” He shrugs. “I guess I’d better skip dessert.”

A smart move; dessert is decidedly skippable. I pick at a raspberry tart in an overcooked crust and call for the bill. This, for four of us, with two bottles of wine and two bottles of water, turns out to be almost $250. Fair for the food, I think, but at those prices I’d like the service to be a little snappier. Still, the lobster is a surprise--it comes in at a very reasonable $24.

“Hey,” says Mr. Movie, giving the star-studded room another glance as we walk out through the crowd. “Can I pick a restaurant or what?”

Il Giardino, 9235 West 3rd St., Beverly Hills, (213) 275-5444. Open for lunch Monday-Saturday, for dinner nightly. Beer and wine. Valet parking. All major credit cards. Dinner for two, food only, $45-$100.