When I was a kid, all the fancy restaurants were Continental and full of fat cats wearing suits. “How very good to see you, Mr. So-and-so,” the maitre d’ would purr at the door, leading the so-and-so to a table where a pretty waitress in a microscopic skirt would hand him a menu dotted with words like vol-au-vent and a l’orange. Lunch at these places was never lunch, it was luncheon, and for the pleasure of that extra syllable you were accorded the honor of paying considerably more than the food was worth.

For some reason this flitted through my mind during a recent luncheon at Bellevue’s Bis on Main. A few months back it opened in the smallish Old Bellevue storefront space formerly occupied by the venerable dessert house Fortnum’s, taking its name from the diminution of the Gallic “bistro.” Since then it’s garnered enough word of mouth from Meydenbauer Bay to Three Points that reservations have become necessary, and regulars numerous. We came to see what draws them.

Bis on Main 10213 Main, Bellevue, 425-455-2033 Mon-Thu 11:30-2:30, 5:30-9:30; Fri 5:30-10:30; Sat 5:30-10 all major credit cards; beer and wine

Not, we agreed upon entering, the decor. Spare and boxy and clad in neutrals, the place is notable for its visual lack of distinction. If it’s shooting for stylish restraint, it lands somewhere just north of plain. Midway through our second visit we realized that Bis doesn’t quite feel like a restaurant at all. I can’t explain this except to guess that in an age where restaurant atmosphere is as rigorously crafted as restaurant food, absence of character will seem to lift a place out of the genus altogether.

We began our lunch with a bowl of tomato soup ($2.75), one of the day’s specials, and a mixed baby greens salad ($3.50). Both were lovely: the soup bright and basily, the salad crisp and swathed in a bang-up bleu-cheese-buttermilk dressing.

Dungeness crab cakes ($12.50) were moderately spicy, relatively high on the breadiness scale, adequately flavorful: in a word, fine. Though they didn’t need any extra zing they came with a little trio of flavored mayonnaises. Alongside came saut饤 squash spears and fried potato cubes, both of which rang, perhaps unfairly, all the aforementioned ’60s bells. There’s nothing inherently wrong with these two accompaniments; goodness knows I’ve had them before. Maybe that’s the problem: We’ve all had them before, and a thousand times before that. Where was the verve, the spark, the je ne sais quoi?

My lunch was the catch of the day: red snapper lightly fried and topped with a dollop of spicy jalape�elish ($10.50). With it came the saute餠squash and a pile of fragrant rice. I dispatched it all, paying particular heed to the moist and delicious rice, but again had to ask myself what grace notes of wonder or distinction this $10 lunch had actually offered me.

Dessert was different. We split a cr譥 brl饠($3.75) and finally found something to make our toes curl. Freshened with the purest kiss of lemon, this cr譥 brl饠was uncommonly flavorful and sumptuous to the point of immorality. Apparently the ghost of Fortnum’s remains on the premises.

When we returned for dinner, we began with a grilled portobello mushroom ($5), marinated in garlicky balsamic vinegar and served sliced over exotic greens. The flavors were fetching enough; a portobello is, after all, the top sirloin of fungi. The problem was the preparation: This mushroom had perhaps been in the same room with a grill, but not so you’d notice.

Likewise not enough attention was paid to the mozzarella and tomato salad ($5.50). This classic could have been terrific, drizzled as it was with good olive oil and liberally peppered and inventively festooned with red onions, but the tomatoes were mushy.

Dinners were better. Duck a l’orange ($17.50) was presented all crackly- and caramely-skinned alongside the squash and a serving of sweet wild rice studded with raisins and pecans. Though overdone in spots, the duck was fine. So were the sea scallops ($18.75), a special of the day in an assertively gingery black bean sauce.

The triumph, however, was our table’s third entr饺 crispy garlic chicken ($15.75). Half a free-range bird arrived golden and almost impossibly moist, shot through with a mouth-filling garlic redolence. Roasted cloves of the bulb arrived alongside, for those who just can’t get enough, along with the squash and a heaping helping of creamy mashed potatoes. This dish was solid.

And again, so was dessert, from the pecan pie ($4.25) to the unique pie-shaped rendition of tiramisu ($4.75). (Weird: everything in horizontal layers, with the ladyfingers reaching up the sides. But tasty.)

As we were taking our leave, a well-known local captain of industry walked in. “How very good to see you, Mr. So-and-so,” gushed the host, hovering visibly. Watching this amusing little suckfest unfold, I realized that officiousness is but one of several sins marring the tone of Bis, and compromising its status as a serious restaurant. Waiters who lack polish is another. Our moody waitress (who was actually wearing a microscopic skirt!) was another.

In spite of its successes, food does not appear to be top priority at Bis. As I reflected on why, it suddenly occurred to me that this is the neighborhood restaurant of the richest man in the world. One would think the symbolic resonance of that fact alone might motivate these owners to concentrate more on their product, smoothing out the problems of execution, which they are obviously capable of addressing, and pulling the menu into the ’90s.

Alas, it seems only to motivate them in the opposite direction. Perhaps the unctuous routine is working; a lot of Bellevue bigwigs continue to patronize this place. But I have a hunch that a better way to a fat cat’s heart is through his stomach.