Good Service, Good Food, Bad Wine at Madison Bistro

I received an e-mail signed "The Mysterious Party Giver," offering to take me and various other Liptons out to dinner in honor of my birthday (the one that was a few months ago). The mysterious one urged me to select a "nice" place, or else we'd be going to Nedick's. I kind of knew he wouldn't like my suggestions, as the places I like are either too noisy or downmarket for him. My dad used to make fun of him?"Did he bring more wine from Ohio?"?but the guy is now really discriminating; he wines and dines clients at the best places in town.

Sure enough, it was claimed that my e-mailed list of picks were lost or never received or oh I don't know what happened to them, and Madison Bistro was chosen for the fete.

Because of the summer evacuation of New York, there are few diners within. But I've seen it crowded in the winter months. A couple of gals sip cappuccinos at the bar. One swivels to check my look as I pass. Sorry to disappoint?just some mismatched markdowns from Century 21.

Likable ceramic roosters adorn. The front barroom is for smoking; lit with a pleasing, almost bright, golden glow. Front seating looks out onto the avenue. The dark salmon paint and recessed lighting of the back dining room are a gambit for warmth but the result is flat and somber to my eye.

I sneak up and strangle my baby cousin to announce my arrival. The waiter waits just long enough for me to kiss and hello, then asks what I'd like to drink. Pro servers have one eye on our table at all times. We sit, one sips tea and we quietly discuss maladies. Then my cute mother whirls in wearing a French sailor shirt and ups the energy level approx 1000 percent. El Mysterioso says to me, "I don't get your articles." I wasn't aware there was anything to get. My mother jumps on his comment as an opportunity to make fun of me, so quickly that we all go backward in time: "...well I rented a car and then I met my friend and then we met some guys and they were kind of fun and then we went to a place but it kind of had some attitude..." Well, you know we can't all be beatnik literati.

There are gifts! Cool. And cards that have way too much heartfelt meaning; I'm getting verklempt! Then the conversation turns to post-semiotics. My eyes begin to cross. The soft rock emanating from the bar is killing me. I mean it is killlingggg me. Later, the volume is upped as it turns to French torch songs with strings, which is somewhat more tolerable. Our topic changes to projective identification. There's no inebriant escape, as the cab I've ordered is sour as a lemon. I wait to try it with food, but it is still turpentine on my palate. Unfinishable.

Our waiter is accommodating. Arranges for some steamed veggies for mom. They turn out precious and crisp-tender, featuring chunky slices of okra and trimmed haricots vert. A precise arrangement that raises suspicions Piet Mondrian is in the back. I spy the man of mystery swiping them as my mom blah-blah-blahs. I detect a shadow of a sneer from the waiter when dealing with the vegetarian amongst us. The air conditioning is so excellent, I forget it's summer and order escargots with a garlic flan and an entree of braised beef cheek in an orange and ginger sauce. Which meets with our waiter's full approval.

A mesclun salad is big enough for two and is elegantly divvied up by the staff. My snails are served in a stock-infused cream sauce with dice of sweet tomato and sliced mushrooms. The shrooms are firm but their flavor is benign. The ecru flan is lusciously satiating. It's at once firm and custardy smooth, though I'd turn up the garlic and turn down the salt. The escargots are so plump and rich I'm supping in my chateaux thinking let them eat cake. Spinach at the bottom of the bowl is not overcooked and soaking up this lovely sauce it's a dark green juicy mouthful of luxury. Well, I'm full.

The beef cheek comes in a dramatic tagine and is unveiled with a flourish. The aroma is agreeably earthy. It's an inconsistent piece of meat, some forkfuls nicely mucilaginous and tender as butter; other bites stringy, even mealy. But Baby Cuz likes the portion I give him, says it tastes like brisket. The stew it's in is piping hot, brown and warming with soft spears of carrot and more just-cooked spinach, but it's less than bread-sopping good. It doesn't seem particularly orangey or gingery to me. I'm also served an appetizing and large swirl of pureed potatoes. The first few bites are downy clouds, but it proves too salty to continue with, and I assure you, a plate of potatoes has to endure a hell of a lot of salt to keep me at bay.

Baby Cuz makes a halfhearted attempt to return his hanger steak. He says it tastes good, but it's not as he ordered it. The waiter returns with the kitchen's explanation that some steaks are red when cooked medium-rare and some are brown. Huh? It's odd, as the steak atop my mom's tartine is cooked beautifully; completely seared on the outside and mooing on the inside. The tartine is an open-faced steak sandwich on a board of French bread adorned with little pickles, plum tomatoes, greens and a tangle of potato matchsticks. The matchsticks I steal while my mom blah-blah-blahs are composed solely of crunch and air, yet forcefully impart the essence of a great potato.

Conversation runs to the far more interesting dealings with the Board of Ed and friend running for City Council. And then to the fascinating?the Romance Writers conference and Lisa's recountal of her Dirty Dancing audition. I notice that a specialty-of-the-house entree of scallops within a pastry pouch over a cream sauce has resulted in a clean plate.

I order coffee and chocolate ganache for dessert. It's pretty enough to hang on the wall. A shiny alternating fleur-de-lis of tart raspberry and marshmallowy vanilla sauces surrounds four rectangles of the most chocolaty substance imaginable garnished by sweet slices of strawberry. All these people who said, "Oh I don't want dessert," are now snaking their forks over in a frenzy. My mom starts directing traffic and yelling at the longer-armed among us to ensure that the shorter-armed get some tastes in. Derived from a high-quality smoky and intense dark chocolate, it's silky smooth and swathed in the raspberry, rapturing.

We decide the Mysterious Party Giver should become a romance novelist. Then rehearse a radio show on which I interview him every week about his only paperback. "Our guest again this week..." "Yes thank you Lane it's good to be back..." One-track Mom says "...Where will you find advertisers?"

Some laughs, then a hug and a kiss to the M.P.G. He's the best guy I know.

Madison Bistro, 238 Madison Ave. (37th St.), 447-1919.