WHY I WASN’T BORN in fin de si裬e Paris, I can’t imagine. In my fantasy I inhabit the demimonde in the City of Lights, sucking absinthe and Turkish cigarettes and eating great quantities of cheese and chocolate. (Health had not been invented yet.) I am, of course, youthful and gorgeous, without wrinkles or cellulite; I wear hats effortlessly. I am a regular at a handful of places in my neighborhood, but one in particular suits me best, both as a festive setting for meeting friends and a spot for solo introspective wine-lubricated suppers at the bar. It is called the Sitting Room.

the sitting room 108 W Roy, 285-2830 dinner Sun, Tues- Thurs 5pm- midnight; Fri- Sat 5pm- 2am MC, V ; wine and beer

Flash forward to debut de si裬e Seattle, sigh, and at least part of my fantasy turns out to be not completely delusional. For just over two years the Sitting Room has been quietly doing business next to On the Boards on lower Queen Anne, earning the loyalty of an unusual number of devotees. “Oh, the Sitting Room—I just love that place!” goes the typical refrain.

It’s cavernous, with a great cathedral ceiling and a long bar, yet somehow intimate, closing up around you like an embrace once you’re seated. This owes, I think, to the winelit hue of the place, somewhere between amber and firelight. Sitting in the Sitting Room is like viewing the world through a glass of cognac, which isn’t at all a bad way to view the world; it makes you feel rather, well, intoxicated. Out of the sound system pours Spanish guitar or acid jazz or something similarly moody. And all around you are those beautiful people from my fantasy—some in groups, some solo—wearing hats and smoking cigarettes (cigaphobes beware), and, even, eating cheese and chocolate.

Maybe they’re nibbling off the cheese plate ($7.95), a generous platter with three bravely stinky specimens along with bread and grapes. Or maybe they’re licking up some chocolatey dessert—recently a model bouche de Noel ($4.95). Or maybe they’re eating them both together, a perfectly appropriate thing to do in a cafe as devoted as this to the art of the nosh.

The menu offers a few each of hors d’oeuvres, panini sandwiches, soups, salads, and desserts. A daily bruschetta special ($6.95) featured slices of toasted baguette frosted with mascarpone and dotted with bits of smoked duck and grilled pear. The unusual interplay of savory with sweet was first wacky, then intriguing, then compulsively eatable. It’s testimony to the balls-out confidence of a kitchen that isn’t afraid to take chances.

The combination of feta, orange, olive, and red onion salad ($5.95 small, $7.95 large) sounded anything but destined, but it registered smooth and inevitable on the palate. Another salad, the more classic union of greens, pears, Roquefort, and toasted walnuts in a Dijon vinaigrette ($5.95 small, $7.95 large), was unremarkably solid.

Soups ($3.50 cup, $4.95 bowl) were earthy and competent, particularly a parsnip-apple variety that was warming and bewitchingly sweet. A gritty, green bowlful of potato-kale soup was also right, with enough interest to remind you that potatoes do indeed have flavor.

LESS CONSISTENTLY successful on the flavor front were the panini sandwiches. They’re served on wonderful soft bread, puffy on top, and thus don’t wear their grilled identity as obviously as most. A mozzarella, roma tomato- basil variant ($6.95) was perfectly edible but less than vivid. Ditto the grilled portobello, provolone, and roma tomato variety ($6.95) and the daily special of pesto, provolone, tomato, and fresh spinach leaves ($6.95). Maybe the problem was ratio of bread to filling; these sandwiches need more stuff.

The one that worked best featured, not coincidentally, the most oil and the most sprightly ingredients: prosciutto, provolone, artichoke hearts, and sun-dried tomatoes ($6.95). That’s the one to order.

The thing is, we didn’t—it came to our table by accident, then stayed by the grace of our embarrassed waiter. Indeed, the staff at the Sitting Room provide a textbook example of how service can be technically hopeless and absolutely wonderful at the same time. No greeting at the door, wrong dishes galore, long waits for the check; but damn if they don’t get the spirit of service exactly right, evincing wit and hospitality and authenticity at every turn. To a person, the folks at the Sitting Room are engaging and warm, adding considerably to that aforementioned embrace.

And this—along with cr譥 caramel ($4.95) that makes you want to die this moment and come directly back as a spoon—is what makes the Sitting Room, with all its myriad imperfections, so entirely perfect.