Sciuscia; Scopa

My companion, whose apart-ment is simple and white?no carpet, no curtains, no trim, no tchotchkes, three or so pieces of stark borrowed art in no more than two shades, says of Sciuscia's decor, "Oooh, this is really nice." The restaurant is named after a black-and-white movie about postwar bootblack urchins with dreams of a white horse. There is only white and black here, but for large-leafed plants; we're both dressed all in black, matching the room. Curvy black chairs and sleek bunches of white lilies. An erector-set ceiling holds tiny recessed lights that echo many white votives below. A few steps up is a mod bar with beckoning black couches, splotch-shaped cocktail tables and convivial groups. We're in the basement of the Giraffe hotel so the patrons are international. Cool electronica matches these digs well. Paper menus and checkfolders contrast with white linens to announce the casual mood, yet high-end service and serious food focus of this spot. Only a few tables are taken. (At street level, the new Dos Caminos is filled to bursting with the unhappening.)

An impressive bouquet of bread is placed before us: ciabatta, cranberry nut, slices of rustic loaves and an excess of fanned-out grissini. To accompany, a red-pepper-infused oil and chive-spiked creme fraiche in precious white pillbox-sized porcelains. We're told of the specials, which include cauliflower soup with sour cream and chives, pasta with wild mushrooms and a seafood (with lobster) risotto.

A big wine list of Mediterraneans, many between $23 (for a retsina) and $40. There is a Dom Perignon for $225, but virtually all bottles are under $80. A glass of Morellino sangiovese ($11) is nutty with a dry finish that agreeably sandpapers the tongue. A whiff of my glass of Chateauneuf du Pape Dupere Barrera ($14) prompts a vision of lavender fields; a sip is syrupy and spreads heat throughout the upper body. Those popes knew how to live. When I was a kid, my dad insisted that I have a few sips of wine with dinner every Saturday night. It wasn't completely awful to me, just another chore. Itty's Italian parents would put water in the wine to make it more palatable for the kids. Worse for me than the weekly wine was that, since I couldn't bear most cooked vegetables, I had to drink a huge glass of V8 before dinner every night in addition to my required huge glass of milk. Dinnertime was torture. I still feel revulsion when I see a can of V8. Sometimes I hear adults saying how kids are so lucky, particularly their own kids; that they wish they could be kids again. Please. Being a kid sucks. You have no control over your life. You can't rent a Mustang convertible and drive up the PCH, you can't eat a whole box of Oreos, you can't stay out dancing all night, you can't stay in bed all day, you can't blow a few grand on impractical clothing; you can't even get a hold of a few grand. A lot of the time, you can't watch what you want on tv. You're forced to watch National Geographic specials. And you have to walk a dog that you didn't even buy. And you're told to go outside and get some fresh air when you want to stay inside and read Nancy Drew. Any adult who goes on about how great childhood is has a very selective memory.

Sciuscia's starters are far more appetizing than V8. Served piping hot in a little iron skillet, slices of chorizo over thin discs of "garlic" potato and so-soft onion ($9) melt in the mouth. Bits of tender red pepper contribute to the mix. The potato is undercooked and lacking in flavor. Three zeppole with ricotta and prosciutto ($8) are sumptuous in taste with a seriously spicy tomato sauce, but I find the deep-fried dumplings' texture unpleasantly light and foamy. Other starters include salads, and steamed clams and mussels in green sauce ($8).

An entree of stuffed baby vegetables with beef, pine nuts, cumin, coriander and cinnamon ($16) has perfectly proportionate spicing. Like a high-rent sloppy joe; it's a great autumn dish. Its roasted eggplant is supple with a pleasantly chewy char. Its squash is awful. Squash is always awful because I hate squash. I suppose it's possible you may have a different opinion. The cream-enhanced sauce proves worthy of bread-sopping. My petite companion cleans her loaded-up plate. Other entrees include, at the very top of the menu a dry-aged ribeye with fries and broccolini ($42), some fish preparations and also a "Neapolitan" meatloaf with mashed ($21). Asparagus and ricotta ravioli in parmesan truffle sauce ($15) is gasp-inducing delicious; shards of tender asparagus rest over the unsoggy durum saucers in their thin aromatic sauce. Fresh ground pepper and parmesan are offered. As an adult, I have a much better relationship with vegetables. The best asparagus I've had was at the old Le Cirque. The waiter approached my dish with a pitcher of calorie-laden hollandaise that I waved away, but he would not be deterred, saying, "You don't come here and not have the sauce," and poured lemony heaven over my picture-perfect spears. They also served the best chocolate mousse I'd ever encountered and I've met up with many.

Sciuscia's coffee ($2.50) is served in tactilely pleasing white cups and matching creamer; the pot is left on the table. All desserts on the regular menu are $7. The waiter offers to put together a sampler of the cinnamon, chocolate and vanilla ice creams for us. Another option, brandy-snaps cannoli filled with orange mascarpone mousse. There's a special of cheesecake with fruit compote, but I'm not big on cheesecake and it's generally the most caloric dessert, so I choose to be virtuous and dietetic and order the chocolate decadence molten cake. Yes it's a ubiquitous dessert, but rightly so. This version's gooey bittersweet insides meld well with a too-sweet scoop of ice cream that sits in a delicate cookie flower with a splash of zippy raspberry sauce. We also try figs filled with pistachios and singed orange segments that are topped by our server with satiny orange-blossom cream. Skinny orange slices, candied in orange honey, garnish. The flesh of the figs is a lovely lilac and the taste is sweet perfume, but the texture is like wet cotton in my mouth. "You know Chanukah is early this year." "Yes, I got a Usinger's catalog that indicates you have to order by Nov. 15 to receive your sausages in time for Chanukah." (You can also get your Festival of Lights bratwurst through usingers.com. To be fair, they do sell some all-beef products as well.)

Sciuscia's European service could not be nicer. Water glasses and coffee cups are never less than half filled. The maitre d' has checked in with all parties and is particularly attentive to the young. He says they opened the day before and "Pleeese come back ladies." Chris, the waiter, walks us out, "You're from New York, no? So we'll see you here again." A logician and a clairvoyant both.

Sciuscia, 365 Park Ave. S. (26th St.), 213-4008.

Scopa

Itty says "You're funny Lane. You'll be talking to one guy and then you'll see another guy you want to talk to so you just walk away." In my country they call it "mingling." "Do I just seem insane?" "No, it's good. It makes you a challenge." I don't mean to be a challenge, I just have a short attention span. Itty says she even went up to one victim and said, "Awww. I'll talk to you." She decrees, "It's not rude, just unexpected."

I realize she's probably right, although the only such scenario of the night in question, that I could recall, was one Itty didn't witness. At Puck Fair a lawyer was telling me I should read Ayn Rand. Then I heard him say, "Hey! Where ya going?" When I returned he was talking to Itty, and happily for me, his handsome friend approached and swung into the seat beside mine. "I guess people tell you all the time you look like Mick Jagger." A nonchalant, "Yeah." "I never liked Mick Jagger." That didn't go over so well, and he really was cute so I tried backpedaling, "Some Girls is okay, and they picked some good tunes to cover." There was a finger in my face, "But they wrote those songs." I had my suspicions that the Rolling Stones did not pen "Imagination," but I remembered that men like to win arguments and so I said nothing.

My reticence earned me snacks and drinks the next weekend at Scopa. It's a big place with multiple dining rooms; an old bank that's been redone in murals and lavish flower groupings. There's a long bar and a lounge area in front where the lighthearted dance and meet and party. Scopa has an edge over other lounges in that it's a full-service restaurant and is also swarmed by day with neighborhood workers lining up for prepared foods. So the chef's a practiced pro and their bar food is a big cut above your average joint. Thin-crust pizza is big as a placemat, lightly charred and dotted with jewel-red tomato sauce. Could have been served hotter, but the taste still made it a treat. Calamari comes in a huge portion; the batter is extra-extra-crunchy, light and satisfying. A jalapeno-influenced oil-based sauce with mild heat serves as a dip. An accompanying cabernet was good quality and generously poured. The crowd is unpretentious, poser-free and full of easy smiles. They're from the boroughs and proud of it. The strong accents are worn somewhat better by the males than by the females. And one gent's cologne almost knocked me over. Go early Saturday night if you wish to avoid the line. When the upbeat DJ started to go to town with retro disco, my classic-rock date suggested moving on. He didn't tell me what to read or even what to listen to all night and I didn't walk away from him once.

Scopa, 79 Madison Ave. (28th St.), 686-8787.