By Paul Reidinger

IF FOREIGN CINEMA is the restaurant equivalent of a reclusive movie star (perhaps Greta Garbo) hurrying through a parking garage in sunglasses and a Chanel overcoat – a bit of muffled glamour, easily overlooked, spectacular when revealed – then Medjool, which opened over the summer a block away, is Bette Midler, or maybe Cher, all open arms and beaming glances.

The world is made of, and for, extroverts, but introverts have their place too. Foreign Cinema's secretiveness no doubt added to its late-'90s, speakeasy allure; at the same time, one sensed the socioeconomic paradox of double-parked limousines and a valet service on a fairly untony block of Mission Street. The unabashed snazziness of Medjool, on the other hand, suggests either that this paradox is not as acute as it was a few years ago (the neighborhood having adjusted, or resigned itself) or that open chic is now more potent than its furtive relation. Or something else entirely.

Medjool, in any case, is as easy to float into as Foreign Cinema is not. There is sheltered al fresco seating in the sidewalk setback and, just inside, a sunny café, walled with glass, for the relaxed weekend lunch. At the rear of the café space is a set of formidable carved-wood doors that open to the dining room, with its display kitchen and a mezzanine trimmed with louvered railings, as if it's part of a ship. The flow is natural and irresistible, though during the day the action pretty much stops at the wooden doors: Medjool might be extroverted, but even extroverts have their boundaries.

Date lovers, of whom I am one, will recognize the restaurant's name as referring to the almost candylike fruit whose story is entwined with those of the pharaohs – and as a tip that the food will have an Egyptian-ish, eastern Mediterranean slant. Wrinkle: there are western Mediterranean dishes too. Further wrinkle: the menu emphasizes the au courant practice of sharing small plates, so we have what amounts, in large part, to Middle Eastern tapas.

We returned a mixed verdict on the west Med items. The pommes frites ($4) were cut into strips, like the twist ties used to close plastic bags, and so commanded sympathetic interest for that reason alone. They were also tender-crisp, hot, well seasoned, and well suited for dipping into a preserved-lemon aioli – a whisper of Morocco here. (The fries are a commonplace on the café menu, incidentally; they accompany such items as a pita stuffed with chicken salad, for $6, and a BLT weighted with avocado, for $7.) But there was a consensus that the gremolata (a paste of lemon, garlic, and parsley) on a grilled white-anchovy pizzetta ($6) was overwhelmingly acidic – too much lemon juice, perhaps.

Eastward ho, beginning with a pommes frites alternative, pita crisps ($5). Like the fries, these arrived in flat lengths, though they were standing upright in their vessel, like strange pencils, or fettuce waiting to be dropped into a pot of boiling water. Also like the fries, they were accompanied by a condiment for dipping, in this case lebni (thickened yogurt) flavored with za'tar, a north African spice mixture of thyme, sesame seeds, and sumac. Another north African spice mixture, chermoula (a curry-like blend of cinnamon, coriander, cumin, and paprika with garlic, lemon, and a few other tasties) found its way into the broth in which PEI mussels ($9) had been steamed.

The larger dishes also reflect a division, but it is less a matter of eastern or western Mediterranean than of traditional versus Californian-influenced dishes. In the former category we find the b'stilla ($12), an almond phyllo pie stuffed with seasoned chicken and dusted with powdered sugar, which lends a slight hermaphroditic cast: is it a savory or sweet course, or both? Another classic preparation was a tagine ($10) of lamb and summer figs. The meat was exquisitely tender here, but there was too little sauce, and most of what there was vanished into the expansive bed of couscous underneath the marquee ingredients.

We might consider the chicken braised in almond-pomegranate sauce ($9) to be a transitional dish: pomegranate juice is a long-standing staple of the Levant (its fruity acidity makes it an interesting alternative to citrus juices), but the dish overall had the tight stylishness of a good confit, with the meat holding its shape beautifully yet falling from the bone at a touch. More noticeably Californian, at least to my mind, was a grilled hanger steak in a thick, barbecue-like harissa sauce, with the meat sliced and nested in a bed of lightly wilted baby spinach.

The dessert menu does not, surprisingly, feature medjool dates despite their simple elegance and candylike richness. But the non-date entrants make more than satisfactory substitutes. I must disclose here that I dislike figs nearly as much as I like dates – they often seem mealy to me – but Medjool averts this crisis by transforming figs into ice cream and serving said ice cream with an olive oil-rosemary cake ($6) and profiteroles ($6). The latter also included ice creams flavored with saffron (which tasted vaguely bubblegummy to me) and with cardamom, which in its dark spiciness had us briefly guessing what it might be (nutmeg? cinnamon? clove?) before our server disclosed the secret. As for the olive oil cake: it was tender, moist, barely sweet, and an ideal companion – we might even say the ideal date – for the much richer, sweeter ice cream.

Medjool. 2522 Mission (at 21st St.), S.F. (415) 550-9055. Breakfast: daily, 6-11 a.m. Lunch: daily, 11 a.m.-5:30 p.m. Dinner: Sun.-Thurs., 5:30-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5:30-11 p.m. Full bar. American Express, Discover, MasterCard, Visa. Moderately noisy. Wheelchair accessible.