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Pied-à-Terre is open and we're dying to visit this new French bistro. So, it seems, is le tout Vancouver.

My girlfriend calls a full week ahead to reserve a table for four on Friday night. We secure seats for 8 p.m., but are warned that we will have to relinquish them by 10.

Two hours will be "ample time" to enjoy our meal, she is assured.

The day before dinner, my friend receives a call back from the restaurant. They have overbooked. Can we come at 6?

No, we'd rather not. A babysitter has already been arranged. And who wants to eat that early?

They will "try to shuffle

elsewhere."

We feel like we should be the ones apologizing.

Pied-à-Terre is the third restaurant from Andrey Durbach and Chris Stewart, owners of Parkside and La Buca (the latter opened less than a year ago).

Thus far, the dynamic duo has done an extremely good job at capturing the mid-range market with unfussy rooms, thoughtful wine lists and simple, full-bodied food at honest prices.

Have Messrs. Durbach and Stewart become victims of their own success? Not yet. But they could be treading on thin ice if they don't drop the Gallic arrogance that dampened our whole experience.

Ah, but doesn't beauty go a long way toward forgiveness? Decor-wise, Pied-à-Terre is an exquisite bijou. At 37 seats, the restaurant is not much larger than La Buca, but far more

polished.

The black-and-white palette is classically elegant. An ornately framed mirror and oversized chandelier dripping with black crystals add soupçons of glamour. The whimsical lighting fixture is so simple yet stunning, so perfect for the room, I keep twisting around to stare at it.

We peruse the wine list, which is almost exclusively French. I recall reading an article in which Mr. Durbach raved about a $35 bottle of Fabas Minervois from Languedoc.

The waiter sniffs and suggests two wines that cost twice as much.

We compromise with a $50 bottle of Chapoutier Crozes-Hermitage 2005 from Northern Rhône, a mid-weight red with softly rounded tannins, peppery notes and good acidity.

We'd like to ease into our drinks, but that's not to be.

"Are you ready to order yet?" garçon asks impatiently, for the second time.

Well, we've decided on our appetizers. Would he like to take that order?

No, he would not. That will delay our main courses. He will wait until we are ready to order properly.

The menu is a soothing medley of such time-honoured classics as coq au vin, coquilles St. Jacques and a filet of trout prepared meuniere, amandine or Grenobloise. With main courses averaging a very reasonable $21, I can kind of understand why they're anxious to squeeze in three seatings a night.

The dishes are blissfully uncomplicated, and almost all deeply pleasing. Steak tartare ($8.50) is well-seasoned, escargots ($10.50) swim in pools of garlicky butter, topped with a single wafer of puff pastry. French onion soup ($8) is almost a meal in itself.

Dijon mustard rabbit ($24), with silky mashed potatoes and herbed peas, is very, very good.

Mr. Durbach and Ryan Mielty, his chef de cuisine, have updated a few traditional plates with their own modern twists. Alsatian onion pie is much thicker than the average tart - creamy and densely caramelized - though served barely warm.

Beef bourguignon ($22.50) is prepared with short ribs braised in a richly reduced red wine sauce.

But then comes the duck à l'orange ($23), waddling along with its pimply skin and barely a trace of crisp. The meat is rubbery and sucked dry of flavour. It tastes like the spent remains of a boiled stock.

Is the skin normally this

flaccid?

Yes, garçon replies, without a whiff of an apology. The duck, he explains, is cooked sous vide (in a vacuum-packed bag, under water).

Oh, really?

Actually, no, it is not. As Mr. Durbach later explains on the phone, the duck is steamed on the bone for two hours, carved, then braised for another hour before being flashed under the broiler. It's his grandmother's recipe.

That doesn't make it taste any better.

The fries also falter. The menu features four variations on steak frites (filet mignon ,

onglet, entrecôte and côte de boeuf). Each comes with a choice of sauce (Roquefort/mustard, au poivre, marchand de vin or café de Paris butter), creamed spinach and baked

tomato.

My $18 onglet (a grainy, flavourful cut also known as hanger steak) is nicely tenderized, properly cooked on the rare side of medium-rare and sliced across the grain.

But the frites, blah, are horribly starchy. Have they not been blanched? Or - mon dieu! - are they frozen?

Yes, they are. Winter storage, Mr. Durbach explains, is cruel to the spud. He says they started chipping the fries themselves, but have recently tried some frozen brands for better consistency.

Considering that the item plays so prominently on the menu, I think they should probably try harder.

At 9:50 p.m., garçon begins taking our wine glasses away. Fair enough. He will allow us to order desserts, but only if we hurry. There is no time to wait until everyone returns from the washroom.

Still, we are grateful for the maple Madeleines ($6.50), two big, buttery-soft cakes nestled on the most wonderful, boozy Armagnac-prune compote we've ever inhaled.

Chocolate mousse, alas, is light on the chocolate. And the filtered coffee is watery. But four glasses of sticky Armagnac make up for it all.

Someone must have cancelled their reservation. At 10:40, there is one spare table in the room. Garçon is no longer hovering. We'd love to linger over another drink, but don't feel comfortable, having already overstayed our welcome.

As we are almost out the door, garçon reappears with a belated overture. The next time we visit, all we have to do is ask and the kitchen will happily crisp up the duck.

Hmm, I might return for a leisurely lunch. The restaurant stays open all afternoon and the $20 prix-fixe menu is supposed to be a great deal.

But as for dinner? I think I'll wait a few months until the rush - and the attitude - has died down.

Pied-à-Terre: 3369 Cambie St.; 604-873-3131