Three-week-old Crispo is marked by a thumbprinted sign. Jay says it’s a good location, as there’s nothing else on this strip. Wrought-iron gating and gunmetal window frames dress up the exterior. Inside, those ubiquitous exposed-filament bulbs that throw a yellow light detract from the Old New York flavor of the tiled floor and brick walls. Blown-up black-and-white posed-looking candids serve as decoration. Banquettes line the sides of the dining room. Big bowls of anised olives sit on the squared-off bar, and there’s a vintage red and white horseracing-themed wheel of fortune to play with.

They don’t have Captain’s, so the bartendress and I have a conference; we decide on a Malibu and Coke. She serves it up and plops in a cherry for fun. An interesting, well-groomed mix crowds the bar. Jay looks like Barbie, so our drinks are paid for by the group of men next to us. When another of their number enters, I overhear, "You’ve got a blonde and a brunette?" A French couple, who smile at no one and think they are fabulous, order Lillet on the rocks. They are unhappy with the amplitude. Instead of simply saying, "Could you pour us a bit more? It’s fortified wine, not hard liquor," they do their best to make our young bartender feel small. "How much wine do you usually serve?" She gets a wine glass to show them. They feign shock, "That’s all?" "For a dessert wine, yes." Frenchie quietly and angrily says, "It’s not a dessert wine it’s an aperitif. Aperitif." Of course she pours more into their old-fashioned glasses, as she certainly would have without the lecture.

When we’re ready to dine, the hostess says, "Three of you?" Jay says yes, Brad Pitt will be joining us. We’re told he’ll be sent over the moment he arrives. We’re seated at a warm wooden table big enough to accommodate Brad when he shows, and we can see through the large window into the kitchen. There’s a high chatter level, but our own conversation can still be heard. Brassy jazz is correctly volumed. Super-cute staff; our waiter is so handsome I can barely look him in the eye. Another round of drinks is sent over. There’s one huge party at an endless table and I’m thinking we’ll never be served, but the staff handles it gracefully. There is a small wait between appetizer and entree, but I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been looking for it.

The wine list ranges from an $18 pinot grigio or Orvieto classico to a $155 Barolo Cascina Francia Giacomo Conterro-Piemonte ’97. A refresher on what this means. "Barolo" is the type of wine: it’s a red made from nebbiola grapes, aged at least three years–two in wood. "Cascina Francia" is the name of the property the grapes are harvested from. "Giacomo Conterro" is the brand name and "Piemonte" is the region of Italy where the wine is made. Most of Crispo’s wines are between $25 and $50, and there are a few half bottles, great for single diners. We select fizzy flutes of Prosecco Rustico Nino Franco Veneto N.V. ($8). "N.V." means non-vintage; the wine may be a blend of multiple vintages, which is typical of inexpensive sparkling wines.

Four slices of hearty hard-crusted bread are brought. No butter or oil is served, but we didn’t ask for any either. Looking over her dinner options, Jay says, "I like a lot on this for a limited menu." Dandelion greens salad is the first item, but neither of us is brave enough to try it. The waiter tells us of three special pizzas. The bianco ($8.50) sounds good to both of us. It’s plenty big enough to split, edges flopping over a huge plate, with the thinnest of crusts just scorched in a spot or two. It’s covered in melted onions and ricotta. Peasant food that makes me happy to be a peasant. The offer is made to wrap up the slices we’ve left over.

Our entrees are standard and inoffensive. A generous bowl of rigatoni ($12.50) wears a light tomato sauce with whole stewed cherry tomatoes, arugula and mozzarella. The pasta itself is perfectly cooked. Black sea bass ($15.95) is a wide and thick piece of fish and I like the very lightly breadcrumbed preparation. There’s no flavor to the filet; perhaps it has been in the freezer. Tastes like something Mom might make on a weeknight, but its tangy thick lemon sour creamy sauce is special, and accompanying braised cauliflower florets are sweet and not soggy. A side of spinach ($3.50) in garlic and olive oil is an unending portion of just-cooked deep-green garlicky bliss. Even the veggie-hating Jay is persuaded to try a few forkfuls. Everything on the menu is under $16; a low price point for a room this nice and a crowd this pleasant.

On travel, Jay says, "If I could go anywhere I’d go back to Jerusalem." And this is a girl wearing a big diamond cross. She says she wouldn’t be afraid to go now. "Everyone wants Jerusalem, so no one’s about to destroy it." Of her crackle-topped rice-pudding brulee ($5) she says, "This is to die for." The chef has added a Grand Marnier kick to it. The rice is pleasantly chewy, but I find the pudding part watery. Our selections are served in high-walled hefty bowls that make you feel like a kid dipping into them. A luscious chocolate pot de creme ($5), like triple-thick chocolate pudding, is an unreally smooth dark luxury. The desserts are so rich we can’t finish them. Tiramisu, fruit, gelato and sorbets are also on offer. And espresso drinks are made here. Coffee ($2) is thin and bitter and served with a precious milky blue glass pitcher of cream. I feel a pull on my elbow, "More coffee?" And after we settle up and sit chatting forever, my cup is refilled again. Nice. The waiter had indicated a 10 percent preview discount, but when I check the bill later, it has been miscalculated to our disadvantage. Jay and I strategize our next visit–the must-have pizza, drinks and dessert.

Crispo, 240 W. 14th St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 229-1818.