Trying to tell a friend how to meet me for some French food at Bistro Calais, I was again reminded how changeable Houston's restaurant scene is.

I couldn't recall the name of the street, so I had to revert to landmarks.  I told my dinner guest to head west on Westheimer, turn left at Palazzo's, and proceed down the block to Bistro Calais.  those names didn't ring a bell with my dinner guest, but the gong sounded when I said that the former used to be Sausalito and out rendezvous point used to be Basil's.

The historic home of Bistro Calais is far more permanent than Houston eateries can sometimes be.  The freestanding brass plaque outside says it was a cottage built about 1880 by Michael des Chaumes, the first significant architect in Houston, as part of his family estate at 1209 Hadley.  The building was bought in 1983 and the following year moved to Bammel Lane, were it shares the block with quaint houses-turned-shops and (in the restaurant's square-like back yard) a lovely glass greenhouse that's used for parties.

Taking its name from the northern French port city near the Belgian border, Bistro Calais has an international pedigree.  The dining room walls are painted to look like crumbling plaster-over-brick in an ancient Tuscan villa.  One of the partners is a British woman, and another is Houston-born Phillip Mitchell.  But he has 14 years of experience working in two of Houston's foremost (and French-owned) French restaurants, Café Rabelais and Bistro Provence, so the eatery's papers are in order.  And its food, at its best, is most enjoyable.

The kitchen, surrounded on three sides by the dining areas and cozy bar, won me over at the get-go with the complimentary bread basket.  The loaf itself was nothing special, but its cottony slices were great for dipping into the dish of olive oil well spiked with herbs and balsamic vinegar.

The most impressive appetizer was smoked salmon with goat cheese, capers and red onion.  The fish was cut into a plump slab, not shaved paper-thin like lox.  The ball of goat cheese seemed to have been deep-fried a melty golden brown, and the sweet onions were minced so fine that they could slip through the tines of a fork.

Baked garlic shrimp was okay if a little short on both seafood and garlic flavors, and the giant crouton it was supposed to be served on was just a stack of toasted baguette slices that didn't make it into the bread basket.

The onion soup, however, was a disaster.  As thick as gray and almost as sweet as syrup, it was further stiffened by a glob of cheese and a slice of bread and sealed inside its beanpot-style bowl by roof-like slices of melted Gruyère that was so tough, I had to remove it and cut it up with a knife.  I threw in the towel after four or five exploratory spoonfuls.

The soup failure was redeemed by a salad success story.  Bistro Calais serves several entree-size salads, but I chose the most French of the lot, salade niçoise, and chose well.  The plateful of lightly dressed greens was fortified with meaty tuna, spindly emerald-bright green beans that had plenty of crunch, chunks of crisply roasted new potato, a quartered hard-boiled egg, a small school of bracing anchovy filets and a scatter of winy, briny olives.  In all, a refreshing salad both light and filling.

Satisfying smaller entrees are also found grouped under the heading "Les Sandwiches."  The bavette au Roquefort is nicely medium-rare slices of seared flatiron steak on a crusty roll along with crumbled blue cheese, a smear of Dijon mustard and something the menu calls tomato slaw.  In reality this mysterious garnish (which a comma would clarify) is one part rounds of Roma tomato and one part rough-cut cabbage.  The French fries served alongside were thick-cut and twice-fried the European way, for fluffy insides and crisp outsides.

Perhaps because of the sociological associations with Bugs and Easter, many (most?) Americans have a thing about eating rabbit.  But anybody who likes coq au vin or beef Burgundy will love Bistro Calais's rustic provence-style rabbit stew, its sublime red-wine sauce and the succulent, fall-apart-tender meat swimming in it.

Even greater culinary rewards await the diner undaunted by unfamiliar organ meats.  Ris de veaux aux champignons is the euphonious French name for seared veal sweetbreads in a deliriously rich, creamy mushroom sauce.  Sweetbreads are pillowy, mild-tasting, luscious morsels of thymus gland - a delicacy you would like if you would just try them.

But half a roasted duckling with a tangy, sticky black cherry and citrus glaze is a superb fall-back choice for less adventurous diners.  And while the fruit tart and especially the profiteroles (tiny puff pastries filled with ice cream and slathered with rich chocolate) are great desserts, bistro Calais's soufflé-light, raisin-dotted bread pudding with a dab of vanilla sauce on the side is on of the best I've ever had.