RESTAURANTS : Drinking It All In at Mason’s

They sounded smart and witty. They played fast and loose. They were unbearably sophisticated. Reading the books and watching the movies, you can’t help thinking that back in the ‘30s people had a lot more fun.

Of course they did. The literati who lounged around the Algonquin guzzled while they gossiped at the Round Table. The lost generation in those Left Bank boites quaffed more than cafe, and Hollywood’s heyday was heady with booze.

It’s all there in black and white; when Bogie put his lips together it wasn’t always to whistle. (Ever count how many bottles are opened in Casablanca?) Movies of the ‘30s are littered with crystal carafes, glittering glasses and cocktail shakers that shine. The Thin Man started drinking before he got out of bed in the morning and every madcap comedy was an ode to alcohol. Then everybody sobered up, and the fun just petered out.

But cocktails are coming back. The proof is at Mason’s, a new institution that is still celebrating the repeal of Prohibition.

With its wistful air of instant tradition, the bar at Mason’s in West Los Angeles tries hard to look as if it has been around since before the Great Experiment. The paintings on the wood-paneled walls look like they have been hanging here forever. The people ensconced in the overstuffed chairs are not quite so antique, but they are all fervently trying to act as if history were on their side. “That’s George Christy,” says one woman to her date, introducing him to one of the silver-framed photos perched on the piano as if she were showing off a family portrait.

Mason’s is a good place to drink. Snuggle into a sofa, order a sidecar or a manhattan and see if you can’t conjure up some witty repartee. And while you’re making chic chat, don’t neglect the delicious pickled vegetables--they’re free in the bar, $5 in the dining room--and the best bargain on the menu.

But the restaurant itself seems like an afterthought. Even the decor starts to fade once you’ve passed the bar, getting vaguer the farther west you go. The big bar is a handsome room, the small library in much the same mode, but the dining room seems a bit sheepish, and by the time you have reached the patio, the place is positively tacky. You wonder if the decorator ran out of ideas or the owner out of money. And then you wonder about the food.

Consider the menu, which is painted with a handsome hound of the ‘30s. When you open it, the clean, no-nonsense typeface leads you to expect clean, no-nonsense food. No such luck. There are dishes like steak and sauteed calf’s liver, and even good old mashed potatoes. But they are not alone. Imagine what Philo C. Vance would do when confronted with a dish like stir-fry eggplant, broccoli and tofu. What would Dorothy Parker have said to tortilla soup? Can you imagine Papa Hemingway nibbling on grilled salmon embellished with caviar and mint? I suspect that they’d all call for another martini; I suggest you consider doing the same.

The food in this clubby, celebrity-filled room is far from the main point. Owner Morgan Mason is the son of actor James Mason and the husband of pop singer Belinda Carlisle; he knows a lot of famous folk. You’ll find them eating the aforementioned tofu dish, which reminded me of the stuff they served in macrobiotic communes in the ‘60s. Other appetizers include kibee, a sort of lamb tartare, which tasted mainly of too much cumin. The tortilla soup was also overwhelmed by cumin, and didn’t have the perfect play of textures that makes this dish a delight.

The first time I had the spicy squab salad with enoki mushrooms and radicchio it was wonderful, but the next time it arrived swimming in so much sugary soy dressing that it looked awful . . . and tasted worse.

I did like a salad of charred tuna with arugula. I didn’t like the same arugula when paired with foie gras and corn (among the least-inspired food ideas I’ve come across).

The pasta was about as good as you’d expect it to be in a restaurant where the waiter, when asked about “Mason’s sticky rigatoni,” replies: “Well, first we take a big pot of water and bring it to a boil. . . .” (The dish turned out to be sort of like a grilled cheese sandwich poured onto pasta.) Penne came with mushy broccoli, and even the nice bow ties with ricotta and sage were memorable mostly for their simplicity.

In the end, simplicity is the key word here. The less that is done to the food the more you’ll probably like it. The veal chop is good, the lamb shank with white beans to be avoided. You’ll appreciate the grilled chicken breast if you ignore the part about horseradish and lime--they were undetectable the time I tasted the dish. And if you’re like me, you won’t appreciate the large and rather gray roast duckling.

As befits a menu in a restaurant that looks like this one, there are a number of side dishes listed separately. Some of them (the mashed potatoes most notably) are very good, but you’d be wise to ask what comes with your entree before ordering. The waiters rarely seem to think it’s worth taking the trouble to mention that you are ordering exactly what you get with your main course, and you often find yourself with an embarrassment of vegetables. In the case of the pan-fried field greens with garlic, a little goes a long way.

Desserts here are not particularly memorable. That’s not surprising; back when restaurants looked like this one, everybody understood that liquor was quicker.

Mason’s, 11500 San Vicente Blvd., West Los Angeles; (213) 826-5666. Open for lunch Monday through Friday, for dinner seven nights. Full bar. Valet parking. American Express, MasterCard and Visa accepted. Dinner for two, food only, $55-$120.

Suggested dishes: grilled tuna rocket salad, $10; bow-tie pasta with ricotta and sage, $10; grilled veal chop, $26; mashed potatoes, $3.