RESTAURANTS : The Siberia Syndrome : If you aren’t a Person Who Should Be Recognized and accept your lot in life at Maple Drive, you might actually enjoy the food

When New York magazine sent a reporter to Los Angeles last month to study the “scene” in a restaurant, she did not go to Spago, to Morton’s or to Le Dome. She went to Maple Drive. “It was amazing,” she reported, “everybody in the Industry was there.”

I tried to get my friend Mr. Movie to come along and point out the important people, but now that he’s become one of them, he’s much too busy for such frivolous behavior. But I soon discovered that I didn’t really need him; even if you don’t know the names of all the big shots, at Maple Drive it’s pretty easy to figure out who they are.

They’re the ones who get the good tables. Of which, I’d like to note, there aren’t that many.

Consider my last visit. We waltz in, unfashionably on time for our 7:30 reservation, and are offered a table directly beneath the piano player’s bench or one a table away. Not being fools, we choose the latter. But even from here the music is deafening, and my companion grits his teeth as the pianist slices into “Take Five.” “He’s mangling a classic,” he mutters. “What?” I shout. My friend takes out his loudest voice and shouts back. The man at the next table turns and smiles sympathetically. Meanwhile the couple who came in just behind us are being led to a lovely table for four on the far side of the room. The busboy ostentatiously clears away the extra places. One of the people at the table must be Somebody, and both of the people at my table now feel like Nobody. It is not what I’d call the perfect way to begin an evening.

But we drink some wine (the list is particularly good if you have a lot of money to spend) and then some more, and pretty soon we start to cheer up. Right about the time that the appetizers arrive the musicians leave, and as I bite into a plump ravioli filled with a mixture of chicken, shrimp and cilantro, I start to really feel better. There are two of them, floating in an intensely concentrated broth rich with the flavors of ginger and coconut milk. It is somehow elegant and earthy, all at the same time, a sort of high-toned take on Thai food. I am suddenly very happy.

Osso buco makes me happier still; this is a huge meaty bone, filled with marrow and topped with gremolata, that wonderful mix of parsley, garlic and lemon rind. It sits on an extraordinary mound of risotto in which the grain has absorbed the flavors of really good stock and lots of saffron. This is as good a version of the dish as I’ve had.

Across the table a turkey sausage seems to be disappearing with remarkable speed. So too is the accompanying sweet potato puree. Fortunately, the world’s best spinach is being left for me.

If you like spinach, Maple Drive is worth a visit. Theirs is bright green, buttery and so carefully cleaned that you get not a single stem. I’d like to eat it every night.

Dessert arrives at the same time as the end of the musicians’ break. This makes it very difficult to enjoy the textbook creme brulee. I notice that the couple across the room at the table for four are deep into conversation. I realize that conversation has once again become impossible for us, and this makes me so grumpy that we get up and leave.

Still, that evening was a whole lot better than my previous experience at Maple Drive. On that occasion, I was dining with a Person Who Expects to Be Recognized. She was not; first we were put on hold by the maitre d’, then we were seated in what she assured me was Siberia. “Next to the plastic,” she said, pointing to the stuff covering the windows on the patio, “is always Siberia.” The waiter did little to improve the impression: He was so overworked that it was a good hour before we got anything to eat.

What we did finally get was pretty good, but my friend didn’t care. Nice rare slices of peppered tuna turned to dust in her mouth. She hated the excellent Caesar salad. And she went to great pains to point out how terrible the fried calamari were. On this score she was right: big tough pieces of squid were wrapped up in big tough pieces of breading.

I loved my veal chop (and the mashed potatoes and the spinach), but she somehow managed to order squishy spaghetti with two big, dense, tough meatballs.

I tried to make it up to her with dessert. And while she loved the profiteroles with coconut ice cream in its thin, bittersweet chocolate sauce, and lapped up chocolate cake with hot fudge and ice cream, they didn’t really help. In the end she looked around the patio, gathered up invisible furs and swept out.

At the door she turned and glared at the room. “I,” she said, “am never coming back.”

The time before that had been another story altogether. A friend and I had dropped in for a late Friday lunch. The room was fairly empty, and we were not seated on the patio with the nobodies, up in the bar where you can neither see nor be seen, squinched up against the side wall, nor next to the kitchen. We weren’t seated in one of the celebrity booths either, but we were given one of the few nice tables in the middle of the room. From that vantage point, we proceeded to have a wonderful lunch.

The really important point about Maple Drive--once you get past where you’re seated--is that the food is very good. All the promise of the opening a year and a half ago has been fulfilled. The menu has been pared down and refined. Breakfast has been eliminated. The rotisserie meats have disappeared. The terrific meat loaf from 72 Market St. has been added to the menu. And desserts have been improved; there aren’t many, but they’re good. The result is an eclectic menu that offers something for everyone.

For people who want to be soothed, there is the most extraordinary East-West combination in town: very clear chicken broth with one big fluffy matzo ball and perfectly tender slices of chicken breast. There are small whole onions, a few carrots, a little bit of dill. If the flavors are Jewish, the execution is Japanese--it has all the elegance of a bowl of suimono.

For those eager to eat good, simple food there are burgers and chili and salads--not to mention that meat loaf. There are oysters from the oyster bar and various pastas. There are all sorts of grilled fish. But those in the market for something more exotic will not be disappointed--there are always a few adventures on the menu, from bouillabaisse to spicy scallops to venison cooked with sauternes, currants, pancetta and roasted vegetables.

That day at lunch my friend and I had perfect little crab cakes (you can get them with or without caviar) and meat loaf and that extraordinary chicken soup. Then we shared a dish of rice pudding. As she poured the last of the cream over the top, my friend looked up and said, “I guess if you’ve got a room full of important people, you’ve got to keep them happy.”

Maple Drive

345 N. Maple Drive, Beverly Hills, (213) 274-9800.

Open for lunch Monday-Friday, for dinner Monday-Saturday. Full bar. Valet parking. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner for 2, food only, $56-$100.

Recommended dishes: crab cakes, $14; Caesar salad, $8; osso buco, $22; chicken with matzo ball, $14 (lunch), $20 (dinner); meat loaf, $18; turkey sausage, $20; rice pudding, $6.