Like a snake shedding its skin – again – David K’s Café is slithering into its newest identity, Gérard’s Place, a literal translation of Chez Gérard, Gérard Pangaud’s salute to slightly less expensive dining. His new partner, David Keh, is stoutly, resolutely Chinese. Give him coq au vin for dinner and he won’t complain, but he’ll stop by his own kitchen for something decent a man can eat before his nightly mah-jongg game. Pangaud – Paris-born, recently decamped from Aurora – now feels a wee bit Chinese, too. Even for Manhattan, they make an odd couple. And the deal was worked out over shrimp chowchow and Chinese broccoli in 45 minutes with no written contract and no lawyers. Very Chinese. Pangaud likes it.

        It took just thirteen days to open Gerard’s Place, with slim an elegant Michele Pangaud replacing slim and elegant Jean Keh at the stand-up reception desk; another twp weeks for the awning. A new front door is in the works. Keh has always wanted to do something Sino-Gallic, and if this mating works, he and Pangaud may try another. For now, a somewhat French serving crew tends tables in a room that is Sam Lopata thrice removed. The bare bones of the brilliant set Lopata created for Cafe Marimba survive in illuminated niches, the welcoming bar, the gels that throw fascinating patterns on walls and floor. Tapers flicker in clear-glass or pottery holders. Provincial prints pad chunky chairs and banquettes, and the country china is charmingly unmatched, but the room wants color, burst of flowers or fruit, perhaps even rugs to make it warmer.

        “It’s bigger than I wanted.” Pangaud says. “But the kitchen is beautiful, a pleasure to work in.” He cooks “what I want to eat,” he explains, robust peasant food made very elegant, pig’s feet and calf’s tongue, vegetable terrines and classics with exotic spicing. Some of it works. Some of it doesn’t. That trotter is luscious, meat and gelatin trimmed from the bone, wrapped in a casing, and set on a sticky lacquered sauce with chopped black truffle. Oxtail is boned too, nestled in a cabbage leaf and ringed with shields of rutabaga “confit.” Firm, zestily seasoned cod flecked with fried garlic crisps is served with potato cubes, Brussels sprouts, and ribbons of beetroot. Even with bits of salt pork and pearl onions, the juicy rabbit stew in its handsome giant soup bowl is a bit bland. But one evening’s special veal shank, sliced from the bone and served in a black iron skillet, is rich perfection.

        If that was your meal, you’d be purring and planning to return. But if you opted for a sort of wimpy avocado mousse, boring terrine of cream-lightened Roquefort on wild greens, disintegrated halibut, soggy chicken or smoked salmon with a taste reminiscent of fuel oil, not even the good seared tuna, crunchy with cracked pepper and coarse salt, or its lovely ratatouille and olive-swathed crepe, or nuggets of sweetbread on a wonderful potato galette, could save the day.

        When Pangaud cooks with his soul, he’s a winner. But when he cooks with his intellect, strange things can happen. Like the popcorn at the bar, which tastes as if it’s been dosed with cough medicine. “It’s thyme and rosemary and olive oil,” says Pangaud. “I like it. The people, they like it too.” Do they like the saffron-tinged rice cake with preserved celery? Why not jalapeño sorbet? Happily, there’s a lot of soul on the chef’s newest menu – garbure béarnaise (that earthy soup), monkfish bourride, and leg of lamb that takes seven hours to cook. Austere lasagna of vegetables with a dab of pesto has been replaced by cannelloni with sun-dried-tomato sauce. Cross your fingers.

        Urbane New Yorkers, solid citizens of the Upper East Side – not all of them as fussy as I – seem happy to find Pangaud’s cooking at these tempered prices: appetizers $6 to $9.50, entrées all under $20, gently priced wines on a small, carefully chosen list, desserts at $6.50 (about $100 for two). Visiting pastry cooks from other kitchens stop by on their days off to do sweets, and Pangaud urges his own team to dream up desserts, too. Try the cherry-studded nougat with a crunch of praline in raspberry coulis, or blood-orange terrine, mint-and-spice fruit soup, or the passion fruit charlotte with caramel sauce. And ignore the misspellings. It took you a while to learn English too.