Suddenly, I notice, restaurants want to be    French  again. I've had coq au vin three times this week  in a  trio of zip codes. And I've just  discovered barbajuans --  a small ravioli-like pillow filled with greens and fried. An invention of Monaco.

       There were seven little fritters in a napkin bunting ($10) at Maison Hugo where self-styled, deprived Upper East Siders swarmed the close-packed tables Wednesday evening, and the kitchen swooned, unable to handle the crowd.

       Next night, I'm not surprised to find barbajuans on the menu of a glowing little café on East 78 th Street called Monte-Carlo. Here, ten or eleven lively little puffs -- filled with wilted spinach, ricotta and Parmesan ($12) -- are tucked into the requisite folded napkin. They're not likely to become an addiction for me, but they're cute, definitely superior to the stodgy downtown model.  

       For those of us who happened to be around when New York's great restaurants were all French, these menus are full of Remembrances of Things Past. Country terrines with celery rémoulade. Coq au vin. Hachis Parmentier. Duck à l'Orange. Raspberry Vacherin.

       There is a trio of Upper East Side dowagers at a cloth-covered round in the corner of Monte-Carlo.  Anyone remember Bonwit Teller? That's the look they have. "We'll definitely be back," says a 60ish businessman, preceding his nodding wife out the door. The quartet of young men next to me are all in suspenders and bow tie: a choral group, I imagine.

       Amazingly, no one arrives after 7:30. How can this winsome little white-washed cottage, inherited from Ciano , be so unloved? Perhaps it's because it's more  expensive that it ought to be, with appetizers and salads $15 to $24 and entrees up to $57 for Dover sole. But so are East Side condos. So are Birkin totes and Hermes scarves. 

       Two of my companions order $14 cocktails. I choose a $49 Languedoc that is fruity and cheerful enough, even with my friend's lobster vol-au-vent. Those of us who are old enough are thrilled to see it on the menu and amazed to see two little pike quenelles on the plate when the puff pastry structure arrives with only slightly too-chewy butter-braised lobster. But where is the sauce for the quenelle? What proud French chef would leave them naked?

      

       The coq au vin comes with pearl onions and

lardons, the advertised "grand-mère" garnish, the dark meat quite luscious, the breast very dry. I'd suggest the  house not serve moules marinières when the  mussels are tight and tasteless, though the bouffant bouquet of very good fries almos t makes up for it.

       A chef friend and I are excited to see calf's liver on the menu. I'd prefer it sliced thicker, but tonight's is  r are, as requested, delivered with caramelized onions in raspberry vinegar sauce (very Nouvelle cuisine), with fine mashed potatoes alongside.

       As a former food and beverage director at The Waldorf, owner Alexandra Pollet should be more alert to service snafus. One waiter is not enough to serve the   room, even on a quiet night. Oscar is never near when we need something. And other young men standing around look blank when I make a request, as if they have no official function.

       I didn't notice that from my far corner the first time I came. On that earlier visit, my mouth was already anticipating the nutty brown butter and lemon smashed potatoes of skate Grenobloise, only to feel deprived when the slightly too-cooked fish arrived hidden by a ridiculous salad on top that dilutes the savor of beurre noir.

       But that evening, the stylish Caesar with white anchovies and the roasted duck à l'Orange, easily enough  for two, made up for the skate betrayal. True, you could find a similar salmon tartare siting on avocado anywhere, but tonight's is fresh and pr etty.

       My companion, just back from diet discipline at the Golden Door, didn't want dessert.  But I insisted. After  all, wanton finales are encouraged by $10 desserts. The profiteroles seemed to take forever. 

       "Everything is made to order," the waiter explained. "Even the pâte à choux puffs."  My confederate that night, an Upper East Sider, was eager to return with his wife and rally neighborhood cronies to a local discovery.

       On my most recent visit, I have a professional  baker in our foursome. She approves the thin crust apple tart. We try to order something called Chocolate Mi-cuit with bourbon vanilla ice cream and espresso crème anglaise.  "Not tonight," the waiter advises.

       That's how I come to discover the Café Liégeois. It arrives in a tall milkshake glass: layers of rich, dark chocolate and coffee ice creams under a pouf of  whipped cream. The evening's ungiving little moules and the arid chicken breast are instantly forgotten in the joy of a marvelous finale.

       I'll avoid Maison Hugo till the chef finds his  rhythm. I lost my patience at the stylishly attractive Dominque Bistro on Christopher Street, with its    tempting French classics, when I sent back the too- salty tuna tartare, and it was returned water-logged from a quick washing. I'll certainly continue to take advantage of Michael White's French vanities at   Vaucluse

       That leaves Monte-Carlo. I'm guessing it will find  its audience if its pricey menu and disorganized service doesn't chase hungry East Siders away.

181 East 78 th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues. 646 863 3465.  Monday through Friday 5 to 11 pm. Saturday to midnight. Sunday brunch noon to 4 pm.

  

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