Only Thing That Doesn’t Click Here Is the Menu : At El Cid, the food is a little chancy, but the dancers are terrific

The flamenco is a cruel mistress. In high school, a kid I knew fell for the flamenco, studied guitar like a demon and got pretty good--or at least he sounded pretty good to us, sort of like “Bolero” without the horns. Unfortunately, though, he never developed the true Gypsy attitude. If he hit a wrong note he would mutter “no, no,” and start all over from the beginning, which was hard on a mood of wild abandon.

The flamenco punished him harshly. His career sputtered out before he even had a chance to work up a stage name, which would probably have been El Guerito de Van Nuys.

Later on I found myself surrounded by collegiate devotees of the flamenco; in memory, one whole period is a welter of savage guitars, throttled voices and fiercely clapping hands. One of my roommates eventually quit a job and ran off to live among the Gypsies in Moron de la Frontera, where he has spent the last 18 years playing the guitar and indulging in a wine called manzanilla. The flamenco has demanded of him a liver the size of Madrid.

It was El Guerito de Van Nuys who introduced me to El Cid in the early ‘60s, and just seeing this deserted stretch of Sunset Boulevard brings back every memory of the flamenco. Down these red-painted steps, past the potted plants resting on Astroturf, the murals of the medieval Spanish court and so on, way down in the bowels of the building lies that same replica of a 16th-Century Spanish taverna, with its ceiling full of heavy beams and murky bar. And doubtless the same dance stage.

And now the curtain rises, and here is the dance troupe. A tall male dancer with a narrow-lidded viper’s stare, cheekbones that could cut glass and heels that are probably registered as lethal weapons. A tall female dancer named Angelita, very fast and with lots of attitude. A more voluptuous woman with a very fiery style. A comic dancer known as Pepita, la Bomba de Sevilla, who’s the crowd’s favorite.

It’s a riveting dance show, and you get dinner with it. But what sort of food? The menu lists tapas and dishes with Spanish names, but I keep remembering how one of my guests had said, “El Cid? I’d love to go! That’s that flamenco club with Continental food, right?”

Maybe yes, maybe no. The first evidence we have is the tortilla chips and salsa cruda waiting for us on the table. Actually, they’re fresh tortilla chips and the salsa is very good, quite garlicky and a bit hot. But as the menu confesses, the familiar Mexican tortilla is not what they call a tortilla in Spain, where the word means a sort of omelet.

Next we get quesadillas. Not bad quesadillas, either, topped with sour cream and decent guacamole, but so far, everything has been Mexican. Next comes a mysterious soup which we have to be told is lentil; I might have guessed corn and spinach.

Some of the appetizers are certainly Spanish. Albondiguitas con azafran taste like a dish from Medieval Spain, in fact: little lamb meatballs in a strong saffron sauce. They are served cocktail fashion, with toothpicks, but these are distinguished meatballs. A big plate of them would be a decent entree.

There’s also a cold-cut platter (pardon me, an assorted appetizer plate) with some good hard salamis and a very earthy dried sausage wrapped in thin sliced ham and mounted on a toothpick with some good jack-style cheese. Unfortunately, these two amigos are separated by a surprisingly bland pimiento-stuffed jumbo green olive.

The rest of the appetizers seem pretty dull. The stuffed mussels may have some cheese in their bread crumb filling. The mushroom caps seem to be filled with nothing but bread crumbs and parsley.

At entree time, El Cid’s menu looks more Spanish. It pushes its paella, which is served for two people, and there are dishes with Rioja wine and so on. There’s a chicken in a loud, mushy tarragon sauce. The moderately tough New York steak comes in a vague wine sauce with canned artichoke hearts. The paella is dark, dark red, apparently from a heavy dose of paprika. It contains oddly chewy lumps of chicken along with shrimp and mussels, and no sausage.

The best of the entrees, so far as I can tell, is the halibut Costa Brava in a nice creamy caper sauce. It comes, like most entrees, with some vegetables--apparently sliced carrots and maybe Florence fennel, one of the few real notes of exoticism on this menu--and white rice mixed with withered peas and carrots and sprinkled with sliced black olives.

The best of the desserts, however, is very good indeed, and very Spanish. It’s called flan, but it really resembles the extra-rich, dense-textured sort of flan known as tocino en cielo, or bacon in heaven. It’s the dessert to choose, though the amaretto cheesecake (very obviously not made on the premises) is a good commercial pastry, very sweet and light-textured.

I’m reluctant to dwell on the shortcomings of El Cid’s food. I’ve been to many a dinner theater that charged more for less, and even quite a few ordinary restaurants that were no better. The thing about El Cid is that you get an exceptional hourlong display of the flamenco for the price of dinner.

But I’m not going to say it’s better than it is--the food, too, is a cruel mistress.

El Cid Show Restaurant

4212 W. Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood, (213) 668-0318.

Dinner seating an hour before showtimes (which are 8:30 p.m. Wednesday, 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. Thursday and Sunday, 8 p.m., 10 p.m. and midnight Friday-Saturday); brunch 11 a.m.-3 p.m. Sunday (music only, no dance). Full bar. Parking lot. All major credit cards. Dinner for two, food only, $39-$65.

Recommended dishes: albondiguitas con azafran, $5.25; halibut Costa Brava $19.95; flan, $3.