Touching down between cross-country engagements, my date longed for the familiar, the substantial fare of Americana. We could not have done better than the 13 Coins. Nestled in the mysterious Denny Way trough, within nodding distance of the Seattle Times building, this bottom feeder has been serving its mixed-up clientele (you could not locate its patrons on any one Seattle hill) 24/7 for 32 years. You can get breakfast, lunch, or dinner at any hour, the first two running between $8 and $15; the latter about $10-$18 à la carte.

Bathed in soul lite Muzak we drifted into an eight-foot-tall towering leatherette booth tricked out in 1980s Ashley Bickerton-style upholstery--perhaps he had dined here as a youth. Certainly our waiter (who provided affable linebacker-like service) had come here as a kid. In fact, it was my early dining experience at the 13 Coins with my parents that brought me back, to see if it still exuded the mystery, the shimmer, the drama of Adult Life. I was not disappointed. Adults swam everywhere around us, accompanied by the subtle ice-cube clink of cocktails shared possibly on clandestine dates.

Eavesdropping happily, we enjoyed an abundant antipasto plate, which comes automatically (and which was refreshed as we lingered). My date brought us back to reality by proposing we begin with a pair of high-risk dishes, a wilted spinach salad and a bucket of butter clams, each of which arrived with nary a speck of the dreaded sand. The former treated us to soft flavors emerging from an ample array of this and that, excellent croutons, and a dressing which was satisfyingly herby and not too garlicky. The latter arrived with a stunningly delicious broth of pesto and garlic butter. The tender clams gave up their soft flesh to the green sauce, which tasted like the place where the dense evergreen forest meets the Hood Canal. Salt, the zip of pesto, garlic, and the smooth, smooth butter... my mouth still waters at the memory. I am not kidding.

What with the 1995 Hedges Red Mountain Reserve wine ($45) and the subsequent Oregon Pinot Noir (we chose the Adelsheim), we could hardly bring ourselves to go on, dwelling as we were in the pleasures of such a tall, dark booth. Nevertheless we girded our loins and continued. I chose the Hangtown Fry. I selected it not because I craved the chipper eggs, the tender oysters, onions, and peppers; or the way the fluffy whole managed to evoke the velvety memory of cheese (it really is a miracle of cheeselessness). I chose it because my mother in her dressed-up dress and clanking jewelry used to order it. She had a point. My date opted for the Filet Mignon, which arrived capped with a perky mushroom tam. He excavated the rare meat from beneath the tam with a deep and, I gather, rare sense of pleasure. Cooked exactly to order, the flesh melted in his mouth. It came with a hot steak sauce that added a certain insouciance. Each entrée arrived with a sidecar of pasta.

Remember this place when, famished from an arduous night of drinking, you long for substance before you retire. We chose crème brûlée for dessert. We might have selected zabaglione or the fried ice cream, but we were nearing the upper limit of our satisfaction.

Good thing, too. The crème brûlée arrived less like a delicate cup of whipped pleasure than a Navy captain dressed up in a doily. The caramel had hardened into a sort of thick glass on the top, and the whole affair was topped with a hyperbolic cherry. We hadn't really counted on dessert, however, and did not feel that this one clinker marred our experience.

The 13 Coins serves excellent fare with integrity earned over time. The waiter told us that the chef is content. You can tell. See for yourself.