If I had a dollar for every time someone told me ÒI want your job!Ó I wouldn't be typing these words -- I'd be sipping a margarita next to a pool and arranging to buy a pied a terre in Barcelona.

The fantasy of being a restaurant critic summons up leisurely meals with friends, perfectly executed risotto and souffles, and coddling that would make a diva green with envy. The reality of my beat is a little different than people imagine. Among the challenges: making up to 60 reservations a month and finding people willing to join me on far-flung dining missions. Eating a five-course meal in the middle of summer, when all I really want is a salad. And, on this particular evening, coming up with a diplomatic response to the server at Bice, a fledgling Northern Italian restaurant in Bethesda, who wants to know if I like the gnocchi, because dinner is winding down, and there are still about 30 tasteless dumplings on my plate.

Bice refers to Beatrice Mungai Ruggeri, who opened her first restaurant in 1926 in Milan and whose nickname went on to grace the facades of more than two dozen stylish Italian dining rooms around the world, including in New York, Buenos Aires, Tokyo and Dubai. Old Washington hands might remember that the area's first Bice (say BEE-chay) opened in the capital in 1991, where it operated f by the waiters at Bice in Bethesda, who are smartly dressed in white jackets.

The restaurant, an oasis in shades of cream and espresso, does its best to distract customers from its confines in a large office building set off Wisconsin Avenue. Recessed lights glow from the ceiling, and jewel-toned vases adorn a ledge that separates two sets of banquettes running practically the length of the main dining room. Mirrors are positioned at eye level, affording everyone a decent view of the expanse, which includes a booth the size of a Lexus. (The lone odd details are the many framed photographs of a young Sophia Loren; they're a little cheesy for this otherwise chic setting.) A server tells us all about the restaurant's design, then wraps up his introduction with a question: ÒGood, yes?Ó

Yes, but I can't eat the interior. And I'm on my final visit, still hoping to find some of the promise I'd initially encountered at the Bethesda Bice. On that first visit, friends and I snacked on warm, crispy flatbread decorated with a forest of arugula and prosciutto; crusty lamb rib chops served with fava bean-tinted whipped potatoes and a warm fig compote; and a respectable veal chop, pounded into the size and thickness of its plate, and brightened with cherry tomatoes and arugula. Spaghetti Bolognese was too timid for my taste, and sun-dried tomatoes detracted from an otherwise pleasant plate of clams and linguine. But another starch gave me hope: Bice's flan of polenta and goat cheese swaddled in cabbage is at once homey and haute -- comfort food with aspirations.

ÒTwo stars,Ó I wrote on the top of my notes, taking into consideration the engaging service and the subdued beauty of the space. Bice wasn't bringing much new to the table, but sometimes what's familiar is what diners want. Provided it's good, of course. But no other meal I had at Bice came close to what I encountered that first night. Subsequent dinners taught me a few lessons in how to make the best of the situation, however.

One of them is to focus on starters, the more innovative, the better. In addition to that leaf-wrapped polenta, I'd be willing to ease into another meal with a bountiful salad of skinny green beans, shrimp and ringlets of squid, tossed with a dressing of herbs and lemon. And crepes folded around pureed squash and accented with a creamy leek sauce are lighter than that combination would suggest.

Pasta proves an exceptionally weak link. Risotto with sauteed mushrooms comes to the table tinted gold with saffron, but the flavors are flat and one-dimensional. No one eats more than a spoonful of what a friend and good cook brands Òmacaroni-and-cheese risotto.Ó And the aforementioned gnocchi, doled out as if the entire table would be eating it, is just a heap of softness, striped red and green with wan tomato and pesto sauces.

Another lesson learned: Main courses are unpredictable, no matter what route you take. Sea bass and peppers baked in parchment paper tastes like a reject from Lean Cuisine, but even less satisfying is the thin, sturdy and juiceless swordfish, a not-so-special ÒspecialÓ one night. And one of the sorriest pieces of beef I've encountered in months is the 14-ounce sirloin steak at Bice, which has the texture and flavor of roast beef that has spent too much time in a deep freezer. Of the side dishes you'll probably order to round out the entrees, the mousselike asparagus flan is a better bet than undercooked cauliflower, which is dreary despite its golden raisins.

Finally, there's probably nothing on the dessert menu you haven't seen before, and certainly nothing worth the time, the calories or the expense. (Five of the seven sweets are $10 apiece.) The tiramisu is particularly charmless.

On the other hand, Bice's happy hour is reason to smile, thanks to the sliced cured meats, cheeses and breads that resemble a spread from a Milanese bed-and-breakfast, as well as cocktail prices that turn back the clock by years. Five bucks for a well-made margarita is a very good deal, especially when it's sipped in a lounge as light-filled and comfortable as Bice's. Small metal ÒtreesÓ planted beside the clusters of tables allow patrons to keep coats and purses within easy reach and eyesight. The racks, which also grace the dining room, are practical and thoughtful.

Sadly, they're the detail recalled with the most affection by everyone I've taken to Bice.