Late night at the Allen Room is a combination of old-fashioned entertainment and the scent of French perfume; a throwback to an era where conservative dress was applauded and conversation endured.

As the night grows cold with surrounding windows overlooking College Avenue and Allen Street fogging over, the dining area -- inhabited by a clientele who remembered to tuck their shirts in -- soon becomes a separate world. A world J.D. Salinger might have satirized.

From the first step inside, patrons are greeted by a battalion of waiters all willing to seat their guests, offer a drink or perhaps even a board game. It is soon clear that vomit stains are not part of the decorum.

Empty champagne chillers lie scattered along walls rather than drunken guests looking to prop themselves. People come to get away from the sordid bar arena.

Among the candlelit tables, brass light fixtures and blue paisley draperies are customers -- middle-aged professionals, twentysomethings and graduate students -- who seem like regulars. Patrons call out waiters and bartenders as if everyone ought to know their names.

Getting drunk is not important. Becoming known is. The Allen Room, 100 W. College Ave., does not call itself a "room" (instead of a "bar") for nothing. It's not your typical watering hole.

"It's not like the Skeller where you get swept out at 2 o'clock," said Todd McCall (senior-education). "And you don't get bottle caps stuck to your boots, and you don't smell urine."

McCall and his party of 12 were entrenched in a game they called "Balderdash." A game where McCall, the designated David Letterman at the table, would pick a word from the dictionary and the rest would try to come up with the correct definition.

Written definitions such as pidgin: "a card game popular in the 1960s" and mugwamp: "a sloppy orgy involving 12 pigs" could be found littered between glasses.

Alongside McCall's table, John Malcolm and Mark Lunetta (graduate-environmental engineering) were entranced in a game of Boggle. Both agreed with McCall -- the Allen Room is not a place for slobs.

"The fact that they don't sell beer by the pitcher is an asset," Lunetta said. "It's nice to see people going out to do something other than drink."

If they don't come for the board games or conversation, they come for piano bar crooner Tommy Wareham.

"God Bless Tommy," said Paul Fischer, an assistant golf pro at the Elk Country Club.

"He makes the night, he's perfect for the atmosphere," he said.

Wareham, along with Bill Filer (they alternate months at the piano bar), have held court here since owner Michael Desmond changed the entertainment from folk and jazz oriented to the piano bar a year ago.

"It's tough to get a crowd for jazz in State College," Desmond said.

Unfortunately for some, Wareham is the loudest aspect of the manicured atmosphere. One cannot avoid the piano man. Holding court at the light blue, leather-padded piano bar, Wareham is the State College King of Lounge Lizards.

Scaled in matching dark shirt and pants (something your uncle would deem "wild"), Wareham tips his fedora and starts up a rendition of "If I Were a Rich Man" from Fiddler On the Roof. This soon bleeds into "Hava Nagila" prompting one waiter to mumble: "Is this a Jewish wedding?"

Although his style is far from standard Judaic culture, Wareham will sing anything even if it's in Hebrew. Describing himself as a cross between speed and heroin, Wareham said he is the ultimate elixir.

"I'm a catalyst, I'm a change agent," Wareham proclaimed. "If you're feeling bad, I'll make you feel good."

Whatever Wareham bills himself, his voice is everywhere. Whether sipping a $3.50 Singapore Sling by his side or visiting the bathroom, you can't get rid of his crooning. Wareham remains the center of attention, like it or not.

As King of the Lounge Lizards, Wareham (who admits to doing "Piano Man" more than 1,000 times during his reign) does more than just belt out anything from "As Time Goes By" to "When the Music's Over" by the Doors.

Though he mostly takes requests, Wareham slips in a few of his own comedy tunes such as "Holy Shit" and a sadomasochistic version of "These Boots Are Made for Walking." Most of the humor is regulated to low brow "fart jokes" and ethnic punch lines. Aside from penning his own schtick, Wareham concedes his other specialty is romance.

On women who come to his shows: "You kiss them, you make them feel good about themselves," Wareham said. "You comfort them. People that cut hair do the same thing."

On the night's chances: "Anything can happen," Wareham said. "It's a gas."

With his let-it-all-hang-out piano bar philosophy, Wareham said he has had his share of groupies. "They're available if you choose to go further," Wareham said. "I don't want to sound macho."

Despite Wareham's bravado, undergraduates of drinking age do not seem interested in soaking up an atmosphere marked by quietness. Most students cannot afford the pricey meals and cheeky atmosphere, said waiter Randy Matschez, who later added that the Allen Room staff met with Desmond a month ago to try to make the place more upbeat.

It is still not attracting a sizable undergraduate crowd, Matschez said.

Though some middle-aged patrons did not notice the lack of students, others like area resident Ralph Petrino appreciated the dearth of undergraduates.

"We need a refuge, this is the only place in town where we can go," Petrino said.