It’s a scene, and that’s it

“It’s not about the food,” my plugged-in friend whispers soothingly, as we toy with our lamentable pizza, wondering what to do with it. I’m also wondering why it took so long to arrive at our table. The billowy crust resembles one of those pre-baked ones from the supermarket. The molten coverlet of Fontina cheese and wild mushrooms puts a contemporary spin on the pie, though.

I’m reporting from dinner at yet another of Hollywood’s hybrid bar-restaurants. This one isn’t exactly a club. There is, however, a DJ spinning tunes out into this dramatic loft-like space (once, if you can believe it, Fritzi’s Vienna Hofbrau) on Sunset Boulevard, a short stroll from the supermarket affectionately known as “Rock ‘n’ Roll Ralph’s.”

Falcon, named after Falcon Lair, the luxurious retreat of sloe-eyed silent film star Rudolph Valentino, comes with a pedigree. It isn’t the fleeting reference to old Hollywood. It isn’t the chef, or even the architect or designer. It’s the owners -- Tommy Stoilkovich and Mike Garrett, whose other venues include Lounge 217, Voda and Pearl Dragon -- who have the cachet in these perilously trendy rapids.

The stage is set for a scene

Like North in Hollywood or Katana on the strip, Falcon is about creating a setting where the young and hopeful can mingle. I say “mingle” rather than “meet,” because what I observed was so far from a pickup scene it could have been a junior high dance. Girls with painstakingly assembled looks stand around in uneasy herds or perch on the edge of the bar’s giant shaggy ottomans nursing pretty drinks. Guys assemble in front of the outdoor patio’s fireplace, smoking, hardly talking, occasionally take a cell phone call, real or faked. And along the banquette-bleacher built along one side of this ballroom-sized space, blonds perch among the cushions like bright-feathered birds, studiously oblivious to the goings-on in the patio below.

Needless to say, if Falcon is hip, it has to be hard to get in. So every time I call for a reservation, they are fully booked -- unless, of course, I want to come at 7, but how hip is that? At this sort of place, the late-night scene is the deal.

Even when I finally secure a reservation at 9 on a weeknight, the mood is still somewhat subdued. Though there aren’t many empty tables, I suspect the crowds, like me, are here on a Wednesday because they couldn’t get in Thursday, Friday or Saturday.

On one occasion, when I had the foresight to reserve a couple of weeks in advance, I achieve a table on a weekend night -- at 9:30. Getting in means running the usual gantlet of security vetting would-be diners against the names on a clipboard. Only when they get a match will they unhook the velvet rope that gives Falcon and its ilk the illusion of exclusivity.

We’re in. We’re strolling up the long concrete ramp to the entrance lighted by flickering oil lamps. We check in with the hosts and are offered a table on the patio close to the fire. The stylish minimalist space strung with piazza lights is enclosed by smooth concrete walls softened by a few languid plants and bracketed by a fireplace and a small bar. A tall woven metal door adds a sculptural element.

As the evening wears on, and the guardians at the rope let more people in, it begins to seem like a cocktail party down here with guests sitting on the steps, thronging the bar and lining the bleacher that runs just above the tables. And in this moment, it is a great room. So L.A., so right now.

Falcon may not be about the food, but it still requires a strategy to make it through dinner. Order up a Cosmopolitan, stretch it out judiciously, nibbling on the complimentary toasted almonds, olives and “hand-picked” cherry tomatoes. What does that mean? That the chef personally chose this yellow one to complement this red one?

After a little while, you might order a pizza. The toppings are a bit unconventional. For example, Falcon’s take on the popular margherita substitutes sun-dried tomatoes for fresh. A basil pesto and pine nuts version could have worked, but the whole pie is so pale, the cheese grated on top hasn’t even melted.

Fortunately, the menu is short and sweet and doesn’t require much attention. Lump crabmeat comes clumped into a tall cake, browned on one side. If heirloom tomato gazpacho isn’t listed, baby beet and goat cheese salad may be the next best choice, even though the arugula isn’t too perky. Nothing in the “Falcon chopper” salad is as fresh as it could be either, on the night I try it. The worst, though, is the poached pear and endive salad drowned in cheap balsamic vinegar.

On our way down to the patio, we pass the DJ’s booth where a kid with spiky blond hair and elaborately tattooed arms is enthusiastically digging into dinner.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” I can’t help asking. “Hmm, let me see,” he answers, examining at his plate quizzically. “Rib-eye steak, potatoes, and, ummm, carrots. Highly recommended!” Take a note.

The steak, let’s face it, can’t hold a candle to Morton’s or Ruth’s Chris aged prime. The quality is closer to what you find at any normal supermarket, but it’s nicely charred, served with fried potatoes and a pretty parsley sauce. Ricotta cavatelli, a cross between gnocchi and pasta tossed with red chard, fava beans and artichokes, is decent too. The free-range chicken is moist, soothingly bland, served with white corn grits.

All in all, it’s pretty unadventurous fare. No one is going to be confronted with unfamiliar ingredients or bold flavors. The food is so understated, in fact, it’s hard to remember what you ate an hour later. In fact, they don’t want you to eat. They want you to drink.

Waiting for the wait staff

The minimum per person is a modest $15. That’s just about enough for an appetizer and dessert, or a couple of orders of homemade potato chips (the best thing on the menu) and a cocktail.

But the service! Though everyone, from hostesses to bus persons and runners, is invariably pleasant, whatever you order is very slow in coming. That includes, surprisingly, drinks and wine. My martini takes so long to get to the table one night, it’s already warm. As soon as a waiter pours the last of the wine, he’s already asking if you’d like another bottle. Quite possibly because it takes so long to find it in the first place. And, twice, runners tried to deliver our main courses before we’d finished our appetizers.

Then there’s the mysterious ice cream sandwich. Once it never arrived. Another time, the server mumbled, “Tonight, it’s honey ice cream and some cookies, sort of a make-it-yourself ice cream sandwich.”

Fine by me, but not with this revoltingly sweet honeycomb ice cream. However, the molten chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream is a fine rendition of Jean-George’s famous “mistake.” I just wish the ice cream had arrived unmelted.

The banana beignets aren’t bad either. The surprise hit is strawberry shortcake, which is not shortcake at all, but a sort of clafoutis or batter cake topped with strawberries and cream.

As we wait outside for our car after midnight, the three wild and crazy guys we’d noticed earlier step into a high-end sports car with the plates VRYHOT1 and roar off into the night. That’s what Falcon is about.

*

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Falcon

Rating: Satisfactory

Location: 7213 Sunset Blvd., Hollywood; (323) 850-5350.

Ambience: Sleek, minimalist lounge and restaurant with a chic outdoor patio that has a fireplace at one end, a bar at the other and night owls crowding the space between.

Service: Amiable if sometimes clueless.

Price: Appetizers, $4.50 to $13; main courses, $13 to $38; desserts, $6.50.

Best dishes: Pizza with fontina and wild mushrooms, heirloom tomato gazpacho, chicken with white grits, rib-eye steak, warm chocolate cake, strawberry shortcake.

Wine list: Mostly California, with a handful of few selections under $30. Corkage $15.

Best table: A table for two overlooking the sunken patio.

Special features: Late-night dining.

Details: Open 7 p.m. to midnight, Sunday through Wednesday; 7 p.m. to 1 a.m., Thursday through Saturday. Valet parking, $6.50. Full bar.

Rating is based on food, service and ambience, with price taken into account in relation to quality. ****: Outstanding on every level. ***: Excellent. **: Very good. *: Good. No star: Poor to satisfactory.