TanDa

"Lane, you pick the restaurant because you're good at that." At least I'm good at something. But then Verizon decided to turn off my phone for reasons they were unable to explain to me. When the repair guy came over I asked if others in my building were affected. He said no, I was the lucky one. So from Kinko's I e-mailed a list of restaurants to Angelina and asked her to make a reservation. She e-mailed back, "What is the name of the restaurant?" Perhaps I am not an effective communicator.

So I went to OpenTable.com to reserve at TanDa and used their handy e-mail inviter to notify my "guests." The day my phone service was restored, my answering machine broke. I got a new one on which TanDa left a message to please call back to confirm my reservation. Which I did. And then Angelina left a message saying, "TanDa looks boring. I made a reservation at Lola." While she was leaving that message at 3:15, I was at the doctor's waiting for my 1:45 appointment. A couple of my fingernails had white scratches on them. The pharmacist had said, "That could be fungus." He said if I went to the doctor they'd just give me pills that probably wouldn't fix the fungus, but would attack my liver. I turned to the Internet. The Internet said it was incurable and all of my fingernails would certainly fall off.

At 3:30 my primary said, "This might be fungus." They took blood and I was very proud of myself for not fainting, but the phlebotomist didn't seem to think that was any big feat. (When the results came back I was told to return, as my cholesterol was highly abnormal. When I did, the doc showed me the readout proving my cholesterol was indeed abnormal. Abnormally good. Off the charts. It was explained to me that this was due to a bit of genetic luck and not my vending machine diet. But I still had to have more blood taken as some other result was borderline, indicating either allergies or brain abnormalities. I suppose either is possible. I still didn't faint, but I did utter a loud and melodramatic gasp on the third stab.)

Then I had to go upstairs to make an appointment to see the dermatologist the primary referred me to (who would take one look and say, "That is not fungus"), because God forbid they pick up the phone and make the appointment for me. Itty would be at my house momentarily and I was still in tanktop and yoga pants. So upstairs the gal gave me an appointment and then the helmet-haired Nazi receptionist next to her said, "Oh no, she's a new patient. She can't have an evening appointment."

"But I've been here before."

"Not to see him."

So the first girl gave me a daytime appointment, sneering, "Take two. Without any interruptions this time." Well within earshot of the concrete-coiffed.

Then, home, I had to call back the primary's staff to give them the appointment info so they could process my referral because God forbid their office upstairs should send an e-mail to their office downstairs. I was put on hold twice for 10 minutes. The third time I screeched, "Don't put me on hold!" So I was given voicemail. Four-thirty now, and I was on the verge of tears because I still hadn't even put any makeup on, I left a dire message to "Please, please call me back." Which the administrator did. When she asked me to hold I heard her screaming, "Why was I not given Miss Lipton's chart? Is this a conspiracy?" Then Itty was at the door and my hair was unbrushed. I called Angelina and said, "We're going to TanDa."

?

We met Angel and Scott at the lounge on Union Square W. under orange flower lamps, and after a couple I began to feel better until they asked me how my job hunt was going. I told them the very sad story of how I'd spent an evening filling out an online application that had more than 10 essay questions like, "How do you manage conflict? Give specific examples," and "How do you inspire confidence with your stakeholders? Give specific examples." (First I had to look up "stakeholders.") And you know I'm not normally a fiction writer, so it was a difficult exercise. The job was 75 percent Manhattan and 25 percent London, it wasn't rocket science and I wanted it. A few days later I got an e-mail that while I was qualified for the position, they had not been able to get the budget and please be sure to keep your application materials up-to-date. I was not having a good week.

Although the Typhoon ($11) martinis of lemongrass and ginger-infused Absolut citron with passion fruit and litchi juices had been recommended to us, at TanDa we opted for a bottle of the small lot Cline Mourvedre Small Berry Vineyard '99 ($58). Could have been smoother, but fruit galore. Itty: "This smells like perfume." Thin purple curtains, bamboo baskets for lamps and black lacquer tables are elegant. Backlit painted panels of glass portray vegetation. The staff is decked in royal blue shantung; your cocktail waitress in a long slinky black dress. But this is not a white tablecloth spot; you may come as you are. A lounge upstairs is loud and has pretentious "Reserved" signs at some tables. Ethnically mixed patrons in their late 20s/early 30s hang in groups. (One evening, an inch from a liplock, I was very apologetically interrupted and asked to take a snapshot, "because you seem the soberest here.") By the bathrooms, the unisex hand-washing area is hidden only by a thinly beaded curtain, so your date may watch you preen from the bar. There are smooth rocks in the sinks.

We started with webby rolls that tasted like croissants, a reminder of the French influence on Vietnamese cuisine. An appetizer of lacquered duck hand rolls ($9) had shredded cucumber and tender tasty duck piled on skinny scallion crepe circles with a soupçon of hot sauce alongside. It pleased most of us, although one said, "Too grassy." Steamed rice noodle dumpling ($10) was a soft pillow stuffed with star anise-braised oxtail, the filling like a good meaty stew and not overpowered by the anise. Light green spiced pureed edamame sat atop the pasta pillow, a cool relish that was a delicious element on its own. Seared beef tenderloin carpaccio ($11) had ribbons of green papaya on top, dressed with chili and lime juice and attended by an airy rice cracker. The meat was tender, but we had to flick the pieces of chili pepper aside so as not to interfere with the wine.

They wanted to know how I was feeling about turning 40 soon. "It hasn't really bothered me because?" Itty: "?because you look so great?" I love Itty. "Well, I'm a more accomplished person than when I was 20." Scott said, "Yeah, but you're going so far back. What about at 35?" I do not love Scott. And by the way, he's older than me.

Angel was wild for her green curry chicken ($17) of white meat, chunks of Thai eggplant, not too many bamboo shoots, baby corn and steamed jasmine rice. The curry was a bit mild for my taste, but the rice was the most flavorful I've ever had. A side of fried rice ($5) was not greasy and had livening Chinese sausage and little bits of pineapple for a sweet spark. Itty and I both tried the "turmeric scented" striped bass ($19), which came over rice noodles with bits of peanut. The strips of bass were beautifully cooked, silky and fully flavored without being overly fishy. We were both thrilled with it. And Angelina was excited by the prospect of lunching at this convenient location, as the chicken curry also appears on the lunch menu. Scott's plate of rack of lamb ($25) with a tamarind-orange crust was cleaned.

When the waitress said they had cookies and coconut milk ($8) for dessert, I almost jumped out of my seat. (Some might not want to sit near me.) "Bring them over." These chocolate chippers were warm from the oven, crisped on the outside, light as air on the inside, the chocolate just at the melting point, a tingle added by a dipping in coconut milk. We would not let the busser take the dish away until every morsel was gone.

After dinner Itty and I walked up to Coda. The opening band was bad, but then headliners Craig Dreyer and Fiends took the stage for some saxy funk. They were looking our way and Dreyer said something about "looking good tonight." The bouncer came over and told Itty to stop distracting the band. She yelled over the music, "Didn't that first band suck?" He said they were friends of his and standing directly behind her. The first band, although sucky, had a good-looking promoter who caught my eye. Somehow I was talking with him. He pointed out to me that he was blond and blue-eyed. Yes, I had noticed that.

Later we were dancing. A couple of times he picked me up like a bride and spun me around. Then he was yelling at me, "Come to Light! Come to Light!" But I was immovable. Borderline shrieking, "What, you're going to wait for"?pointing accusatorily up at Dreyer?"him?" Insert soap opera organ music here. This had not been my plan, but now that it was mentioned, the saxist was very interesting-looking, obviously talented and closer to my age. "No! Not at all."

The accuser and company moved on, but his 6-3, broad-shouldered, green-eyed and handsome friend, introduced as "Mr. MTV," stayed behind to chat with me. He said he was from Ridgefield. I said, "I lived in Ridgefield when I was little. In 1966." He said, "I was born in 1978." He still had his satchel from work with him. I flattened my palms to push against his chest (which was quite sturdy) and looked up to say, "You're a nerd. You probably saw Spider-Man already." Which of course he had.

"What else?" he wanted to know.

"You didn't see Star Wars yet, but you're going to see it twice."

Despite my brutality, he chose to share one of his Listerine oral care strips with me, until I heard Itty's voice saying, "Hey, break it up over here." My week was getting better.

TanDa, 331 Park Ave. S. (betw. 24th & 25th Sts.), 253-8400.