Elmo; Pizza 33

Olive Garden! I like their cannelloni. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. And it should be empty, probably nobody even knows it's open yet." We can have a table in 45 minutes.

But the spot is swarming with the starving and shopped-out, by way of Best Buy, Old Navy, Barnes & Noble, Burlington Coat Factory, Bed Bath & Beyond and every other superstore in the 6th Ave. corridor. With sadness, she tells the host we've decided not to wait, "Not on a Friday I guess." He says, "We'll see you Monday."

So we walk around in search of dinner. We go over to 7th, as it has the good-bang-for-your-buck Cafeteria to the south and decent pubs northward that serve the Garden. But we don't know if there's a game. Although I've had good luck getting a table (and a good meal) at Mustang Sally's even when there is a game.

"What about that monkey place? We never got there."

"Mmmm, I think that's pricey."

And then we see a beacon-above our heads, larger than life gleaming brushed aluminum letters spell RESTAURANT. Well, that's exactly what we're looking for.

We're asked twice if we have a reservation, but are seated immediately at a curved banquette. "Just in time," quips our host. He does not take coats, but informs us we can check them downstairs.

The very attractive staff is clad in black. Mirrored walls and high ceilings deceptively disguise the room as much bigger than it is. Decor is fun and well-done in 50s-inspired mod. While the bar is jam-packed with mostly men in dark clothing, the restaurant serves a surprisingly diverse crowd; groups and dates of all types and ages. Some caj, some slickly fashionable. It's ridiculously loud. "Rock the Casbah" and "Walk Like an Egyptian" typify the soundtrack.

At dinnertime the loungey downstairs bar is a quieter haven. Tall-glassed mojitos abound. Almost everyone in the joint has a cocktail close at hand. We are handed big slippery menus and a wine list in diner laminate. Our interesting-looking neighbor picks mine up off the floor and we have a small moment. His date decides it's a good time to lean across the table and kiss him.

No bread is brought, but we start with bruschetta ($5.95) that is more exciting than as described on the menu. Three slices of sesame-seeded Italian bread are loaded up with toppings-one each of tapenade, caponata and good garlicky white beans. The black olive spread is overly briny and the caponata tastes like chunky vinegar.

Our main meal of attractively presented dishes arrives and the neighbor wants to know "What's that?" and "Oh, what's that?...Wow, you guys are good at ordering."

"We've had a lot of practice."

An appetizer of fried calamari ($6.95) is pretty good; could be crispier. Strangely, it's served with cocktail sauce (I'd prefer marinara) but also with what tastes like a key lime peppery tartar sauce that knocks the socks off. It's the best calamari condiment I've ever experienced. "Hudson Valley" salad ($7.95) has huge hunks of only frisee, which for me is fine combined with other lettuces, but too bitter to base an entire salad on. The salad is untossed and uncomposed; under a branch of unruly frisee I find a pile of lovely roasted apples, nuts and cheese.

Speaking of the Hudson Valley, my aunt and uncle are buying a place a scant three miles from the birthplace of Lane Lipton. (As of yet, there is no plaque identifying the town as such.) At Swing 46, my aunt had said she'd seen her soon-to-be-neighbors "shoveling" leaves. "I think you mean 'raking.'" She got up to dance and I quizzed my uncle, "Have you ever lived in a rural area?" "No." "Have you ever lived outside the five boroughs?" "No." This should be interesting. Then he remembered, "Well, I lived in Ithaca." True, but I think in the dorms is different. Wait till they want a delivery of pad Thai at 10 p.m. or realize there's no Starbucks across the street.

Elmo's sea scallops ($16.95) are rich enough to stand up to their robust sherry vinaigrette sauce and are nicely paired with sauteed greens. On the menu, entrees of meatloaf and fried chicken also tempt. Tonight there is a bass special-the thick chunks of fish seem appreciated by a nearby diner.

It takes us about 10 minutes and much discussion to select a dessert. The bananas Foster? The Duncan Hines chocolate cake? We attack and polish off a lemon tart ($6) with smooth and tingly sour innards. It's unappetizingly served with a paper cocktail napkin between the crust and the plate, which becomes soggy. Our neighbors order two desserts but finish only half of each. The charming one leaves us with a quiet, "Take care."

I'm still hungry when we go, but this is probably less due to portion size than my inability to manage more than a couple of forkfuls of that unpalatable frisee. As I reach the door I realize I've left my umbrella; a johnny-on-the-spot staffer has already retrieved it. More club here than restaurant as the night ages, the mojitos are refilled, the imbibers are refueled and impossibly, the room gets even louder. Check paramarx.com for info on Saturday nights at Elmo.

Elmo, 156 7th Ave. (betw. 19th & 20th Sts.), 337-8000.

Pizza 33

I'm on my way to the supermarket to pick up the bird and I'm thinking I better hustle... I've got to buy chairs and placemats at Kmart, extra china from odd lots in Macy's Cellar, get some shelled unsalted pistachios and maybe some halvah at the East African grocery on 9th Ave., stop in the liquor store for Beaujolais, make a couple of pies, assemble casseroles and...is that a brick oven through that window? Oh, well there's enough time for lunch. I mean a girl's gotta eat.

The crust is crisped on the bottom and chewy on the top. Loads of unstringy cheese, with a scarlet, not-too-sweet sauce. There's no puddles of grease. Two bucks for a hefty slice and a small Diet Coke. I wish the floor was cleaner and the trashcan wasn't full, but the staff is sweet as pie and the room is sunny. If you're over there anyway, don't pass it by; it's a great slice.

Pizza 33, 489 3rd Ave. (33rd St.), 545-9191.