We had a 7:30 p.m. reservation at More, party of three. Grandparents of Munch, as a quick matter of background, actually refer to More as their "second kitchen." They dine there with alarming frequency, perhaps more than they dine in their "first kitchen." (They've avoided tabulation for fear that the results might force a rankings flip-flop.)

Really, our group this particular evening didn't need a reservation.

"We would have really needed one," Grandmother of Munch said with a knowing laugh, "if we'd gone two hours earlier."

The grandparents, they're sharp. They eat at enough restaurants city-wide to recognize More's comparative advantages. For instance, it's got a quiet, easy atmosphere. Its cuisine is three parts elegant, one-part homestyle. And then there's the matter of its patrons, who can be described, with the requisite obliqueness, as loyal. Or unchanged. Or, perhaps, given to disproportionate coupon usage.

At least that's the way prior More reviewers addressed the subject. Munch, though, has always been a proponent of forthright journalism -- plus, Munch has the benefit of grandparents who can crack on seniors with the best of 'em. So there's no excuse to duck the truth: More's clientele is downright Jurassic. "Just listen to the conversations, table to table," Grandmother of Munch says as we wait for our food. "Wheelchairs, cardiologists -- that's what people talk about here."

You might be wondering why More has such a demographic -- a caricature of Aging Pennsylvania, if you will. In truth, though, it's hardly a phenomenon, for the same reason that some apartment buildings cater to the elderly, others cater to the young. People naturally align by similarity, and once a few people start a trend, others follow. So for the past 30 years, More has aged along with everybody inside. The menu -- an Italian-Continental mish-mash -- remains largely unchanged. Same with the decor, the white-brushed walls, the dark-iron artwork, a few museum-style paintings.

It's a timepiece with a well-dressed wait staff.

To be sure, More aims for the upscale crowd. Most entrees are priced between $17 and $23, with primary menu categories for seafood, veal, chicken and pasta. Many dishes are dressed with thick creams or wine-based flavoring, but More now offers a "Healthy Heart" category of choices, including the orange-flavored sole, dinner for Grandmother of Munch. (Safe to say this didn't exist in earlier years.)

More's food is adequate but uninspired, and its prices seem a misguided attempt at grandeur. Meals arrive covered by steel plate covers. Grandfather of Munch received his standard selection, the veal parmigiana. It was a Food 101 recipe: you had the cutlets, the cheese, the flecks of garnish, all in a generous portion. Munch is still waiting to find a restaurant that takes the veal parm to the next level; Munch's grandfather, who normally enjoys this More offering, said the veal was less tender than usual. The entree came with a side dish -- the twice-baked potato, by request -- which is less common at restaurants than it should be. Though the potato itself had a slightly soggy base, the topping, buttery and fluffy, made proper amends.

Munch ordered the deviled crab cake, per recommendation. You can find crab cakes at just about any restaurant worth its sea salt, of course, but the "deviled" part had Munch intrigued. It meant a little extra breading, a few extra spices, a crispier outside shell. The plate arrived -- once the metal was whisked away -- with simple presentation. One cake sat there, about the size of the Mellon Arena. (A good thing, given Munch's gluttony.)

The inside of the cake was packed with pleasing chunks of crab meat. Munch didn't notice too much of the soupy garbage some restaurants try to hide under the armor of their crab cakes. Still, the outside of this cake -- the deviled part -- detracted from the taste. The shell was a little too bland, and its dryness, though passable, could have used a kick.

More got enough things right that the dining experience was enjoyable. Food arrived at our table promptly; bread rolls came covered and warm; noise from neighboring tables never disturbed our conversation. If More is an ossified example of old-school Pittsburgh dining, Munch took some pleasure in realizing its survival. But Munch also took some pleasure in knowing alternatives exist.