If only we could bottle Brian McNally. If only some Harvard MBA could reproduce McNally’s seemingly improvisational fumblings to a formula. For months we’ve been hearing that Brian was about to open a restaurant, a joint lark with Sylvia Martins and Nessia Pope. It’s Brazilian. It’s not Brazilian. It’s sort of Brazilian. It has no name at all. Just an address, 150 Wooster Street. A Former body shop on a desolate strip of nighttime SoHo. Still a body shop (in a way). And overnight, boffo.

        Dazed entrepreneurs of feeding, riding the equilibrium-defying roller coaster toward chapter 11, would love to plumb the secret of McNally’s knack. How he chooses the most remote outburb and makes it “in.” How he spruces things up so subtly the room looks evolved (or almost undone, as in the Canal Bar). That even the food counts. Do not forget that Patrick Clark came of age at the stove of Odeon. The Canal Bar’s Matthew Tivy is no slouch. And Ali Barker, who pleased folks at the Union Square Café despite a drift toward excess, has calmed down here.

        Somehow I can’t believe this rabble cares about the wonderful barley “risotto” with a tingle of spicy lamb sausage. They are nourished by the thrill of being here. Being first. Finding it. Caution your cabby or he’ll swoop right by. There’s no name, no sign, no visible marker. Just a steel-and-glass front that looks like somebody left the lights on in a garage. Brazen graffiti. A motorcycle parked out front.

        Yes, you need a reservation. No, you can’t get one unless you’re desperate enough to settle for a table at 6:30 (though summer weekends belong to hoi polloi). Join the meek at he bar. Wait to inherit. Perhaps someone with clout will make space for you in his booth, gray-blue leatherette in the front, red at the rear, each a continuous house party as pals come and go, darting about the room, lobbing kisses and innuendo.

        Leave? Now? Just when the hurricane hits full force? Iman center stage, and Calvin. Carolina Herrera. Chessy Rayner. Adults adulterating the youthquake, the shock troops of fashion. Women with saucers on their heads. Men with pleated paper fans and green plastic bangles. Lots of Eurolings and South Americans and Japanese, a Zen master, a minion with camera. Beauties with bared thighs, bared backs, bared shoulders (paperback covers for “Sweet Savage Love” and “Passion’s Proud Captive”). People you recognize at once even though you don’t know who they are. And Bianca is here.

        Even the serving crew is beautiful. Young women from ancient civilizations in garments that fit like wet suits. Our waiter, who looks like James Dean (and is young enough to say “James who?”), offers club soda after bathing my sleeve in beurre blanc. At 10:30, Belafonte sings “day-o” on the sound system. At eleven, gentle Brazilian rhythms begin. Everyone is smiling and pretending not to stare. A hostess whirls in a daze. The air grows thin.

        Beyond the palms and barn siding, beyond the tiled waves that mimic Rio’s sidewalks, there is food, imaginative but not to the point of idiocy, not the least bit Brazilian, occasionally bizarre but mostly good (entrées $15.50 to $24.50). Fennel seed does not detract from lush melting lumpkins of gnocchi salted with prosciutto in cognac cream. Who cares what lemon and orange peel have to do with penne and asparagus in pecorino-flecked cream? It’s delicious. Fusilli are an un-integrated last-minute toss-on to earthy calamari stew. Tomato-cheese tart is seductively tangy; scallops, clams, and slivers of raw carrot grace a rich chowder. But the marinated raw bass is too warm, and neither sweet nor acid enough.

        First-rate steak comes with mashed potatoes, endive crisps, and an unnecessary disk of marjoram butter, a splendid veal chop with grilled scallions and risotto-like amaranth, the crusty chicken (overcooked) with a triangle of porcini polenta and roasted leeks. Grilled salmon is a model of cooking perfection, and a thick knuckle of tuna “Diane” is a savory joy (definitely two-thirds sashimi). The special catfish is tasteless and the trout overcooked. But so what?

        Such a stinginess of berries in the shortcake, crumbly but good, is positively un-American. Fried crêpe with guava mousse and passion fruit sauce or with vanilla ice cream and nuggets of candied orange tastes better than it sounds. And chocolate ice cream drizzled with caramel and beer nuts is comforting.

        So why does Brian look so sad? “This isn't what I wanted,” he laments. “I wanted a quiet, mellow, serious restaurant with good food. This is horrifying. Horrifying. I’ll never open another restaurant.” He looks across the room, spies Ron Darling, smiles. “Now, that’s impressive.”

        And Bianca is here.