In every Paris quartier, in every country town, there is a restaurant like Tartine, which occupies the former site of Reds at Fourth and Bainbridge. On my first visit there, I was struck by the French-ness of the atmosphere. This is no chic bistro, but rather a gathering place for locals -- a spot to drop in and check out the daily special, or to order from the dependable, unchanging menu. In short, a place where everybody knows your name.

The walls are stuccoed and feel old. Red Provençal fabric provides window swags and repeats the colors in the tablecloths. But they are usually covered with brown paper, and the table setting is a tin bucket, holding the flatware and striped blue and white napkins (actually dish towels). There are antique mirrors, distressed blue moldings, and a little bar at the front that is really a service bar. Although there's a small, reasonable wine list, the proprietors don't seem to object if you bring your own. The patron, Suzy DiRienzo, is an attractive blonde, and to round out the picture, there is an avuncular white-haired chef with a twinkle in his eye.

Tartine (a snack in France) came to be when Suzy, in grad school in Albany, waitressed at three of the restaurants that Yves Longhi then owned. They became friends, and she later coaxed him out of retirement to come to Philadelphia and open a restaurant.

On our first visit, the service is so bad that we wait over an hour for our meals, and have finished our wine by the time it arrives. We do like the little clams in snail butter, and the lentil salad, but find both the chicken and the steak frites overcooked. We decide to give the restaurant a little time and return a few months later to the same warm greeting and Gallic music, the same handwritten menu, only not in violet ink, as is the fashion in France. We start in on our wine, and the very typical appetizers. The clams are a bit chewy, but the garlic and parsley butter in which they sizzle is mopped up to the last drop. The salad of lentils is just that, a pile of earthy-tasting lentils on butter lettuce. If you like lentils, you'll love this. A bowl of white bean soup du jour is very warming and flavorful on this chilly night, and is not as thick as bean soup usually is. Bits of carrots give it a little sweetness, and it is perfect with a few bites of crisp baguette.

The salade verte reinforces my belief that, if only God can make a tree, then only the French can make a proper salad. Soft lettuce, just the right seasoning in the dressing that coats the leaves -- that's really all you need.

Salade de boeuf is something you find only in the neighborhoods. Hefty slices of rare beef coated with a mustardy vinaigrette -- it's delicious with just the right amount of vinegar and mustard. There's this time just too much of it. Scrape it off, leaving a film on the meat, and you have a wonderful dish.

The service is still slow, but we have brought enough wine, and when the entrees come, they are worth waiting for. With the exception of mussels marinieres, which taste a bit tired despite their white wine broth, everything is fine. The fish du jour is whiting, a fish we should see more of, at least when it's done this way; simply sautéed in butter, with lemon on the side. The flesh is white and firm, and the accompanying roasted potatoes and zucchini are just right. Should anyone complain that French food is all about sauces, I would direct them to this forthright fish, or to Tartine's steak frites, with possibly the best frites in town -- they taste precisely of the boulevards. The coq au vin is not strictly traditional, for it is served with rice and lacks the usual pearl onions, but it is very good, burnished with its dark, winey sauce. A crepe of seafood is the only truly rich dish we encounter. The crepes are full of shrimp, scallops and mussels in a creamy béchamel, and glazed under the broiler so they glisten with a brown, bubbling topping.

Desserts are limited to a typical threesome -- tarts, fresh fruit and chocolate mousse. The tarts of the evening, crispy rectangles of either blueberry, apple or raspberry, are delicious with a splash of crème anglaise. But the chocolate mousse is as light as a cloud, with tiny bits of chocolate floating through it. It is the same mousse that sits on every dessert cart throughout the provinces. It, like the salade de boeuf, hits every Proustian taste bud in one's mouth. After dinner, we chat for a while with Suzy, her husband, Eugene Gearty, and Chef Longhi, and then they speed us into the frigid night with good feelings.

Tartine is exactly what it professes to be -- a spot where you can indulge some French cravings, greet friends and just hang out. It's easy on the purse, just like its prototypes in France. A neighborhood spot -- flawed, friendly, financially feasible, and finally, French.