By Paul Reidinger

FRINGALE, BORN in 1991 in an edgy neighborhood, today lives in fairly groovy surroundings. Here, then, is a classic American tale of upward mobility made remarkable by the twist that the restaurant hasn't actually moved. It is still parked near the corner of Fourth and Brannan, and 13 years ago that was a lonely place of warehouses and deserted nighttime streets. But soon Bizou happened along to keep company, and in subsequent years the CalTrain station was refurbished and a baseball stadium and Muni Metro line built. Fringale was, from the beginning, a citified, white-linen restaurant, and with the passing of time the city dolled itself up sufficiently to meet Fringale's high, and pioneering, standard of urbanity.

The restaurant's name means "the urge to eat" and suggests an absence of fuss about good food many of us might say is the core meaning of that slippery and overused word bistro. Fringale is, in fact, as good a facsimile of a Parisian bistro as you are likely to find on this, the far edge of the far side of the pond. The dining room is small and square, full of warm butter tones and lengths of dark wood (hand rails and floorboards) burnished to a glow but also showing those genteel signs of wear that say: Many people have been in and out of here over the years, and while they were here they enjoyed themselves. Could there be any higher tribute for any restaurant? The design is one for the long haul, and it has worn well.

Fringale may cast a Parisian aura, but its early fame rose from the French Basque origins of its founding chef and (until recently) co-owner, Bayonne-born Gerald Hirigoyen. Hence the persistence on menus over the years of such Spanish-inflected delicacies as piquillo peppers, Serrano ham, and saffron. Last month custody of the stove passed to Marc Rasic (late of the late La Table), but the Basque notes continue to sound. You can, in fact, enjoy piquillo peppers, Serrano ham, and saffron all in one bite if you treat yourself to a paella roll ($2.50), which strongly resembles a slice of sushi roll, except that the wrapping is ham instead of nori, the rice filling is saffron-scented paella (with shrimp) instead of sushi rice, and the sauce on the side is a salty-sharp aioli with pureed piquillo peppers and sardines instead of wasabi and soy sauce. The roll makes a compact and slyly playful statement of the kitchen's purposes; it is also deeply French in its willingness to borrow from other culinary traditions while at the same time Frenchifying those borrowings.

A fair amount of the cooking involves Parisian bistro standards. There is an excellent salad of frisée ($8), tossed with crisp chunks of lardon and a poached egg, with a pair of slices of toasted levain jutting out from either side of the bowl like Prince Charles's famous ears. In a nice touch, the vinaigrette seemed to have been applied to the greens well beforehand – a kind of informal marination that softened the frizzy leaves' texture and mellowed their grassy bite.

Steak frites ($19) is, of course, the bistro dish. Rasic uses a strip of boneless New York steak and tops it with a berm of béarnaise reduction thick with minced shallot. The matchstick frites are exquisite (all that's missing is the paper cone for serving them; they come in a crock), as are the al dente haricots verts heaped beside the meat. The young philosopher wanted the meat cooked "medium"; what arrived looked more on the well-done side to me (I caught not a glimpse of rosiness when the steak was cut open), but we were ... philosophical about it and took comfort in the béarnaise sauce.

Rabbit is nearly as central to bistro cooking as steak. Rasic's version ($18) is a confit of the saddle and loin, presented in boneless slices atop a ragout of Italian and wax beans, with a few oven-roasted cherry tomatoes thrown in for texture and color. But the real treat lay pooled at the bottom of the plate: a buttery herbed jus that absolutely pleaded to be mopped up with bread.

One is reminded, by this sort of cooking, that elegance is so often a matter of well-managed simplicity. At lunch an older philosopher and I enjoyed a plate of linguine ($14), tossed with shelled prawns and a julienne of zucchini and yellow bell pepper, all sautéed in extra-virgin olive oil with garlic and parsley. It was an unaffectedly seasonal dish that called for minimal handling of its ingredients, and it resulted in a flavorfulness one would not automatically have expected from reading about it on the menu.

The Basque tuna burger ($10), on the other hand, left us slightly bemused as to what exactly was Basque about it. The quite thin filet of fish seemed to have been given a good basting of vinegar (sherry?), and there was, perhaps, a smearing of piquillo aioli on the sumptuously soft bun, but on the whole it did not match the performance of the linguine. Fortunately we had ordered a crock of pommes frites ($5) on the side, and we pacified ourselves by munching our way through that – urging each other on, you might say, in the true spirit of philosophical solidarity.

Fringale. 570 Fourth St. (at Brannan), S.F. (415) 543-0573. Lunch: Tues.-Fri., 11:30 a.m.-3 p.m. Dinner: Mon.-Sat., 5:30-10:30 p.m. Full bar. American Express, MasterCard, Visa. Not noisy. Wheelchair accessible.