The Triangle Lounge is right on point with house-made chips

"I have great memories of this place," said my pal Giselle, as we straddled swiveling barstools in the dim recesses of the Triangle Lounge. "I celebrated here when Clinton won."

That was 1992. It didn't seem to her the place had changed all that much.

In fact, there have been big changes afoot since Portland restaurateur Tom Hurley took over this pointy little bar and lounge in the crux of downtown Fremont last fall. He revamped the menu and, says the press release, "spiffed up the interior with a new lighting scheme, funky fixtures and an updated color palate of cobalt blue, deep red and yellow."

The lounge looked funky, but seedy is the word that sprang most readily to mind as I sat with my elbows on the sticky ledge of a cracked and peeling bar, gazing up at tatty scarlet lampshades and a red neon sign that shouts: "Prescriptions." The walls have been recently painted: One bears a tribute to the New York City firefighters who died on Sept. 11, 2001.

That mural is a reference to Hurley's heritage. He comes from a long line of NYC firefighters and was one himself until his muse led him to pursue haute cuisine. He won acclaim as chef/owner of Hurley's in Portland, and impressed Seattleites with Coupage in Madrona.

At Triangle, Hurley is clearly channeling his inner fireman. His chef de cuisine, Travis Lyle, dishes up chili, barbecued chicken, fish and chips and bodacious sandwiches to a youthful, mostly beer-and-vodka crowd. But Lyle also fries up dainty house-made potato chips and fashions a burger from American Kobe beef short ribs.

The result is a sometimes zany disconnect between what you expect and what you get.

Take drinks. Beyond suds, there's a nifty little cocktail menu that features an elegant remix of the classic Manhattan called the "Constant Gardener," combining Woodford bourbon, sour-apple schnapps and brandy-soaked cherries. A waitress mixed an impeccable dry martini, but when asked for a wine list, she fumbled to recall: "We have a cab, a pinot, a blend that's mostly zin, chardonnay and pinot grigio."

Gambling on the pinot, we got pinot nero from Alto Adige, a soft, structured and immensely drinkable wine, as it should be for $11 a glass.

It would go well with the Fremont Burger, except that nearly three-quarter-pounder is packaged for two with a pair of Pilsner Urquells. It's $26. At such a price you expect a burger as iconic as the foie-filled patty at Coupage, but this one falls short of great.

The ground meat, piled on a sturdy pretzel roll, is undeniably rich and full-flavored, but lacks the voluptuous mouth-feel that sets even American Kobe apart from the herd. Still it comes with some flashy accessories: spicy red-onion "kimchee" and a pot of black-truffle mayo.

Like all sandwiches here, the burger comes with a choice of chips, fries, house salad or potato salad — each very good, but really there's no contest. Even Paula, Simon and Randy would idolize the ethereal house-made chips with their dribble of black-truffle oil and crumble of asiago cheese.

As a starter, stacked high on a big square plate, they are so much more rewarding than the pillows of deep-fried goat cheese served with marinara sauce so chilly you almost feel those warm, golden rounds shiver in your fingers.

Warmed up, that sauce reveals a bright tomato essence. It's the chief asset of a four-cheese pizza built on bland, breadlike crust smothered with a muddle of mozzarella, goat, asiago and Parmesan.

Tomato also dominates the zesty yet mild house barbecue sauce that replaces marinara on another pizza topped with pulled chicken and caramelized onion. The sauce is slathered abundantly as well on half a chicken, a decent enough bird reputedly finished on a Weber grill, but mine bore little evidence of that extra effort.

If gut-filling comfort food is your goal, choose macaroni and cheese rather than chili. The cheese sauce has an attractive sharpness, and the noodles sport a bread-crumb crust.

The chili, topped with a melt of cheddarlike cheese, barely sounds an alarm in terms of heat; the meat, simmered in what tastes like the house marinara, has an odd texture, somewhere between chunky and ground.

Fish and chips, on the other hand, are easily among the best I've sampled anywhere in town. Fist-size chunks of halibut in a golden cloud of batter nest among crisp, salty, perfect shoestring fries. Cabbage slaw and pickly tartar sauce are worthy comrades.

Salads are also good. Fresh house greens nicely dressed in vinaigrette needed salt and pepper, but raspberry vinaigrette gave a fruity jolt to apple, goat cheese and greens embellished with thickly candied walnuts.

The lull between happy hour and late night appears to end around 9 p.m., at least on weekends. An incoming tide of revelers paused to show ID. Most headed toward the "prescription counter" or one of the tall tables nearby. Few opted for the crushed-red-velvet banquettes in the scalene lounge, though I imagine in warm weather the sidewalk seating arranged outside its apex is a desirable perch.

Dessert was never mentioned, but I suggest you end with a plate of potato chips. Think of it as a cheese course.

Providence Cicero: providencecicero@aol.com