It was a casual affair for a place so full of still life and allegory. Or maybe it was pretty buttoned up, given how the feng shui of the surroundings must be nudged toward chaos by the exhibited Pollack and the hidden Manets. Viewed from that angle, perhaps it's surprising that the spinning paint hadn't driven anyone to pee into the fountain, and that everyone who wasn't made of stone was wearing clothes.

In fact, the people enjoying Max at the Gallery Tapas Night at the Memorial Art Gallery were not only fully clothed, they were all sitting rather decorously in their wrought-iron chairs. If there were any bohemian artists present, their conduct remained so firmly within the strictures of polite society that they were indistinguishable from the crowd, which was mostly made up of 30somethings on dates, older women reading while they waited for friends, and groups of younger women who might have been in an exclusive sorority for the well-heeled and well-bred sometime within the past decade.

There was only one free table left when I got to the MAG at 6 p.m. It was located arm's length from a table where two young guys put out an effortlessly hip vibe. Cowed by their intimidating cool, I stared at the floor while using my empty coat to secure the free table. Then I escaped to catalog the food while waiting for my friend.

There were three kinds of white wine and two kinds of red, all steady, unpretentious varieties, and all $6 a glass. Soft drinks and beer were also available, although the beer selection seemed to consist mostly of bottles of Genny Light. (Other varieties are available, I was assured.)

The food and drink is provided by Max at the Gallery. The menu is still evolving - more complicated items are in the works, according to Max's Tony Gullace - but when I went, the offerings were not aggressively Spanish, despite their designation as tapas. In fact, the food seemed to have been inspired by some combination of the art upstairs and the babushkas on the other side of the ocean.

Rembrandt could have painted with pigments taken from the olives, while sculptors might have been tempted to take up a paring knife and liberate distressed maidens or Roman dignitaries from the marble-like cheeses. The torta was covered by a flame-colored romesco sauce that could have slipped effortlessly into the wardrobe of a pre-Raphaelite beauty. There was also pickled-beet salad with feta, a dish that reminded me to go look at one of my very favorite MAG paintings, "The Fiery Ascent of Elijah," a gorgeous, anonymous 16th-century Russian work tucked into an obscure corner of a second-floor room.

These $4 plates of tapas, which included all of the items above and then some, featured the kind of portions that are usually dished up with the admonition that you need to "eat, eat, look how skinny you are."

While I was eating, the two hip young men at the next table got up, sauntered over to the fountain, and got out a stringed bass and a saxophone. They began to play jazz, so casually you could almost believe they had gotten tired of talking and people watching, and just decided to play a few sets to help the evening pass more pleasantly.

Max at the Gallery Tapas Night occurs every Thursday just inside the main entrance to the Memorial Art Gallery (500 University Ave). Tapas and drinks are served 5-8 p.m., the gallery is open until 9 p.m., and gallery admission is half-price ($5 for adults). For more information call 276-8900 or visit mag.rochester.edu.