Marilyn Monroe and Elvis walked into Ed Debevic’s for dinner. Amazing. It’s open less than a week and already the customers are playing the game. Perhaps our gentler, kinder, more basic time may be precisely the moment for the sweet hokey-ness of this fifties-luncheonette fantasy with its cheap grub and wisecracking, bubble-gum-snapping crew cutting up in the lingo and look of late, lamented decades.

          Not likely you’ll run into Bianca or Calvin or the pampered darlings of the night here. But it’s fun. Some of the food’s not bad at all. It’s a little like wandering into Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding. As our waitress, “G. Willakers,” cries, “It’s probably my only chance to play Broadway.” So what if it’s lower Broadway, stomping ground for the crowd that doesn’t amuse WWD.

          Of course, there are no reservations. Of course, there’s a wait. But if you’re here for a lark, you will play the wait for all its drama. Register for a table under the neon HOSTESS sign. Then slip up to the slithery black bar for a Betty Booper (frozen raspberry daiquiri, rum added before serving, the bartender swears) or a Jack Dempsey Punch (mango margarita) and watch the show. Or settle at a tall, round cocktail table (not one but three “cigarette girls” give mine a brisk wipe). By the time you get your chili fries and experiment with the ketchup (all that glop, happily blurs the fries’ congenital sogginess), the loudspeaker may summon you to hit the Formica.

          G. Willakers wears a bowling shirt and Royal Crown Cola-cap earrings with miniature knife, fork, and spoon dangling. “Numsie,” with her pearls and lace hankie, is what you miss most about Schrafft’s. Fred, in plaid jacket and yellow high-tops, is Buddy Holly come home, breaking into a lindy twirl. From time to time, the powder-room attendant shuffles by in her bathrobe, pin curls, and Scotch-taped bangs, toilet-bowl swisher in hand. On the ladies’-room mirror is scrawled HE’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU, and there is Lady Esther’s face powder and Jergens hand cream à la the innocent past.

          “Want to buy a tattoo?” asks a long-haired Lorelei. “It doesn’t hurt.”

          “I don’t want a tattoo that doesn’t hurt.”

          “I’ve actually heard that a few times tonight,” she says. “But then this is New York.” She shrugs. “You’re sure?”

          And who is Ed? He’s imaginary, too, a bowler with a beer belly, the creation of the food world’s Disney, Richard Melman, who (perhaps prudently) has till now shied away from risking his profitable Chicago-spawned Lettuce Entertain You concepts on the frigid shoals of Manhattan. Here a few weeks ago to art-direct the placement of period toys and a mishmash of signs (GOOD VALUE IS AN ENDANGERED SPECIES; IF YOU CAN FIND A BETTER DINER EAT THERE; BURP), Melman actually forgot to mention that he’d sold Ed Debevic’s, Inc., more or less lock, schlock, and yock (he remains a minority stockholder), to a local consortium of Dennis Riese (scion of the Riese Brothers clan) and his investors.

          Because this is New York, the gravy isn’t so lumpy and the waiters aren’t so mean. Ed’s typical smart-ass sass is minimal. “We’re sweeter here,” says the manager, Dan Mesches, “because New Yorkers really need it.” And it’s still strictly Ed (i.e., Melman). Fast service, speedy turnover, and don’t be surprised if G. Willakers plops down at the table to tell you her life story or Numsie squeals “Groovy” without a trace of embarrassment when you ask for dessert.

          All right, this isn’t about food, but you’re hungry. The spicy tomato sauce on rigatoni is downright perky, and all pastas should be served in a mixing bowl like this. Get an ice-cold plate from Numsie and hit the salad bar — the best buy in town (free with an entrée, $2.50 with a sandwich, $6.95 by itself), especially when G. Willakers keeps urging you to go back for seconds: romaine as well as cold, crunchy iceberg, tomatoes, cukes, all the usuals, plus three or four pasta salads, couscous, pickled beets, dressings of varying fat content, and soup (spinach mucilage or decent turkey-and-black-bean or chowder as good as Campbell’s), macaroni and cheese, kasha, and ratatouille, too.

          Rubbery burgers, turgid custard pies, tasteless mashed potatoes — isn’t this what nostalgia is all about? You can count on Ed. But the fried chicken’s not bad; the barbecued chicken and ribs are actually delicious. I’m a fool for overextended meat loaf like this, and the excellent pizza. Fuel up for $10 (more or less), sandwiches from $3.25, entrées $5.95 to $7.95, desserts mostly $2.25. My sophisticated pals — dragged away from Le Comptoir for this adventure — are devouring the apple crisp, brownie delight, and huge butterscotch sundae. But the most irresistible confection of the moment is the world’s smallest hot-fudge sundae — just three bites, just 49 cents.

          WIPE FEET BEFORE LEAVING, says the sign. AND YOU ARE NOW LEAVING ED DEBEVIC’S AND ON YOUR WAY BACK TO GRIM REALITY. Even Scrooge would have to crack a tiny smile.