ED-Blowdryer 29 77 GREENWICH AVE. (BETW. W. 11TH & BANK STS.) ...

77 GREENWICH AVE. (BETW. W. 11TH & BANK STS.) 212-929-6736

I LIVE IN A neighborhood that is papered with Zagat ratings—you could open a restaurant that only served peanut butter, and the local critics would be all over it like white on rice. To avoid these joints, I had to go as far as the West Village.

I visited Chez Brigitte with my somewhat French friend Patricia Winter, a choreographer. One of the latest reviews of Chez Brigitte was written in 1994 by the New York Times, who generously called it a bistro. Does a yellowing countertop with six swivel stools make a bistro? I haven't been to Paris in a while, but I bet their bistros are quite a bit different; I like to picture at least one plant, maybe even a few wooden chairs.

We went on a Friday, so I got the specialité du jour, blanquette de veau (veal stew in white wine sauce), as whipped up by the Spanish cook, right behind the counter, in front of me. I asked him where he learned to cook French- style, and he looked bemused.

"I just cook," he replied.

The whole dish, complete with roasted potatoes, yellow rice, sweet peas and salad, was a thrifty $8.50.

I was worried about the yellow rice—was it really French? Patricia, who lived in France for 12 years, said it was traditional to have saffron rice in French cuisine, cooked in what she calls a drown-and-drain style, but that they would never combine rice and potatoes. Perhaps that's why they're so slim. I have American friends who couldn't even fit on the Chez Brigitte stools, which are wedged right up against the narrow counter.

Patricia's a good cook. She once dabbled as a personal chef, so I asked about other French-style restaurants.

"The Flea Market, on Ave. A, is too trendy to be good. In the East Village, people go no matter what. But it started out good."

She also doesn't like Casimir on Ave. B. "He'll take a simple traditional dish and use every spice he has. In classic French cuisine it's thyme, bay leaf. It's not that complicated—it's like ballet; it has its own vocabulary."

Patricia really likes Le Café Crème on Madison Ave., which she described as "heart- attack food, loaded up with butter." But also quite excellent.

My veal stew actually came with red wine sauce, which I loved, but the cook whipped up some buttery white wine sauce, just for me to try.

At my urging, Patricia launched into a long French legal-system story. (I like my food served with an accompanying anecdote.) Seems that Patricia bought an apartment with her husband, then left him a week later. This was in 1992, but she hasn't been able to get her divorce papers. And, therefore, she's gotten none of the benefits of the jointly owned apartment—which he was supposed to sell with the divorce.

"I did some sleuthing and tracked down my ex-husband. [He] hadn't been paying the phone bill or the monthly charges on the apartment. When you don't pay that, the huissier comes. [T]hey take everything out of the apartment and it's so fucking romantic—they leave a dining- room table, two chairs, a bed, two plates, glasses, forks, knives and spoon."

She paused to taste my white sauce and proclaimed it delicious. Even the mushrooms have taste, she noted. (For my part, I noted that the white wine sauce is usually only served just two times a week—with the fricassee. I felt flattered—oh, the power of a 69-cent notebook!)

She continued on with the divorce story: "There's a seven-year law in England and France. If you haven't seen your spouse in seven years, they can divorce you. There is no separation of goods. You get everything. I had letters with dates; we'd met in Mexico on numerous occasions. In France, you call your lawyer 'maitre,' like 'master.' I was so angry with this lawyer his father got me, I was using impolite French! My husband's lawyer freaked out because my husband had lied to her. This is very serious in France, so she contacted my husband. He told me the lawyer I had hired was a criminal lawyer who had defended Klaus Barbi, and is now working for Saddam Hussein. Stupidly, I felt sorry for my husband, and took the blame for the divorce. Now I'm down on all these official records as being the wrongdoer."

She wrapped it up just as I was mopping up the sauce with some bread, French-style.

"I own this expensive apartment in Paris to which I don't have the keys, and there is a bed, two chairs and two plates. Now he's living in a chateau that's in ruins, in a village in Auvergne. Historically, the peasants never liked the landowner so there was all this scandal attached to this place. Apparently they had an uprising against him!"

And then it was somehow 10 p.m., and Chez Brigitte was closing for the night. o