Ambiance adds to Gaslight's appeal

Normally when you have to wait 20 minutes for a reserved table, it's annoying. And when the french fries in your steak frites taste like fast-food fare, only not quite as good, it's just plain sad. But for some reason, Saturday night at Gaslight, the new brasserie in the South End, these things really didn't bother us.

Maybe it was because there were actual gaslights flickering outside and an inviting, low-lit room inside. Or because nothing on the menu cost more than $19.50. Or because at least three people on staff apologized for the wait.

We killed time in the crowded bar area, downing delicious Frida Kahlos (an iced-tea cocktail so good a Miller High Life lover ordered two) and eavesdropping on the people around us. A geeky guy wearing French cuffs (I only know because he said so) was telling his hipster friend about his switch to eHarmony. He'd already met a lady online and was planning on flying to Las Vegas to meet her. Uh-oh, long distance relationship alert: Hopefully he won't be logging on to eDisharmony soon.

By the time we finally got to our table, just past the communal dining tables and a woman with a big swoop of sprayed hair, we were starving. We scarfed down scalding hot, scarily gray escargot and vinegary asparagus with white anchovies, as well as bread served in a white paper bag.

Only then could we fully appreciate the atmosphere. The restaurant is set a few feet below street level, which gives the place a snug feel. The windows are adorned with white filmy curtains, the walls with antique mirrors and converted street lamps from France. Fans turn slowly above the white-tile and dark-wood dining room, which is framed high up by two long rows of wine bottles. The ambience was only spoiled when the waitstaff inadvertently turned up the lights, twice, by bumping into the dimmer switches located at elbow level.

The frites, as I mentioned, were lifeless - and nearly sloshed off the plate by a hurried waiter; the steak was plain but revived by béarnaise sauce. "I could put my belt in this stuff and eat it," one diner proclaimed. Another irresistible sauce covered the mammoth free-range veal wiener schnitzel (oh how I'd love to see that fried schnitzel run across the fields), but the most coveted dish on the table was the rich, meaty skate arranged in a graceful curve over a mound of haricots verts.

For dessert, we tried the tart au citron with crème chantilly and crepes flambé, only there was no flambé. Why else would you order a flambé other than to see the thing set on fire at your table? Our Lithuanian waitress seemed unfamiliar with the concept. The hot chocolate was also disappointing -- luckily one of us happened to be carrying around a square of dark chocolate that came to the watery drink's rescue.

Some have complained that Gaslight is a big cliché, an unoriginal knockoff of other French brasseries. It is weird that it's housed in the same building as a gym, and I agree that the Aquitaine Group should have paid more attention to the food than to the decor. But we're in the South End, not the south of France. The fact of the matter is, you can come here without breaking the bank, even order a $2 Pabst Blue Ribbon if you want to, park for free, and still feel like part of a hip scene (especially when you see a silver Ferrari belonging to one of the owners parked out front).

And you know what? I'll come back. I just won't order the steak frites or the hot chocolate or the flambéless crepes. Maybe I'll even bring the Ferrari.

Gaslight, 560 Harrison Ave., 617-422-0224. gaslight560.com. Entrees $9-$19.50; wines by the glass $4-$14.