RESTAURANTS : Cozy Aura, Different Twist and Quality Food Could Make This Place a Habbit

The Hobbit, now in its 17th year of operation, is a restaurant located in a converted, Spanish-style home. Its name may be no more than literary trivia to some of the people who dine there, but like the Tolkien trilogy of Hobbit tales, the restaurant has acquired near cult status.

This is an occasion restaurant, booked weeks, even months, in advance. Prix fixe dinners of six or nine courses, depending on the night of the week, are served banquet style; they are so popular that although I tried several times to get a reservation, in the end I had to wait for a cancellation.

You knock on a speak-easy door. Someone peers out to verify your reservation, and then you are ushered in for a tour of the house. At 7:30, everyone in the crowded foyer is led to the wine cellar for champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and optional chat with total strangers. (This is clearly not the place for an intimate evening.) While you’re browsing through the rustic cellar you are encouraged to contemplate the impressive labels and choose the bottle of wine you will have with dinner.

The hors d’oeuvres are as impressive as the labels. They change constantly: On our evening, an artichoke terrine with finely minced mushroom shared the honors with a grainy country pate. There were giant slabs of ripe Brie baked in phyllo, little toasts with florettes of pimiento, sliced cucumber with herbed cheese and golden caviar. Had we not known that eight courses were to follow, we happily could have made a dinner out of these. But prepare to nibble with discipline; the service goes until well after 11 p.m.

At 8 o’clock, the entire crew is led upstairs to a cozy dining room with white stucco walls and a fireplace. At this time of year, the mantelpieces and corners are festooned with holly and poinsettias while New-Age carols fill the air.

Before the first course is served, a jolly, bearded fellow--Chef Philippi--comes to the dining room to greet his guests. He’s a big man who looks as though he enjoys his work. His enthusiasm is infectious; I enjoyed his work, and most of the others I observed that evening did, too. He prepares solid food that is well-balanced and tasty, if not exactly brilliant.

We began with hot popovers, an endangered species, and pasta primavera--colored shells in a creamy, Thai-like sauce with lots of fennel and red pepper. I liked the dish very much, but what I liked even better was its size. Philippi has a nutritionist’s sense when it comes to portions. At the end of the meal, I felt blissfully full, not uncomfortable.

The pasta was followed by a soup that the chef calls seven onion, a broth made from scallions, leeks, Maui and other onions, finished with light cream. It was delicate and delicious.

I wish I could say the same for the third and fourth courses: One was a flavorless breast of chicken with paprika on top and fontina cheese underneath; the other, a gooey sweet spinach salad that tasted like cotton candy. But these were the only disappointments of the evening.

At the halfway point of the meal, there is an intermission during which guests can tour the kitchen, stretch their legs on a patio, or visit an upstairs art gallery. I went to the kitchen, where the menus of Girardet, Georges Blanc and Auberge de l’Ill, three of Europe’s most celebrated restaurants, are proudly displayed. I asked the chef if he could duplicate any of the dishes on the wall. “Oh no,” he said modestly. “We don’t even try.”

And so ironically, when the meal resumed, we had the one course that might have been served by Blanc or Girardet--simply poached scallops astride partially pureed leeks. Given the spirit of the other dishes, I found this one rather extraordinary.

It was followed by a clean-tasting strawberry sorbet, the traditional entremet, to prepare us for the main entree. Philippi’s entrees, which rotate weekly, range from saltimbocca to lobster Thermidor, with a clear bias toward beef, which is featured at least twice a month. We were served perfect slices of filet mignon in an imperfect, roasted red pepper sauce. The beef was tender, the sauce a shade bitter.

Dessert that evening was chocolate silk, a three-layer Bavarois of white, light and dark chocolate cut into a wedge. It went down with surprising ease.

Service, performed by a team of smiling waitresses in floral print dresses, goes down easily, too. I left feeling that the Hobbit is a pleasant restaurant, and one I’d be happy to return to. Clearly Frodo lives, and in style . . . somewhere on the back streets of Orange.

The Hobbit is expensive. Nine-course dinners, served Thursday through Saturday, are $50 per person, not including wine, tax and gratuity. Six-course dinners, served Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, are $41 per person.THE HOBBIT

2932 E. Chapman Ave., Orange

(714) 997-1972

Closed Mondays

All major credit cards accepted