For a moment, I feel I am stepping back in time. The warped pavement, the whitewashed façade of the turn-of-the-century warehouse, crates of apples wafting their cider scent, hostesses in mournful black. True, all of it is today’s New York, but clearly haunted by nostalgia for yesterday. City Hall distills and honors the classic New York steakhouse in the same way that Balthazar pays homage to the French brasseries. Uncannily evocative but better in ways than the original. Aren’t you taller than your grandmother? Blonder? And your teeth are straighter, I bet.

        When Diamond Jim Brady put away six dozen oysters at a sitting, he probably ignored the same classic relish plate City Hall’s chef-owner Henry Meer has dusted off  here, with its carrot sticks, celery, radish, and pickles. Not even a sliver of jicama to spoil the illusion. But I doubt Diamond Jim ever confronted a high rise of shellfish as eclectic as the triple tier flaunted here: four kinds of oysters, cherrystone clam and littlenecks, Alaska king crab and Baltimore blues, New Zealand mussels, lobster, whelk, plus four sauces for dipping. This is global gluttony via the jet stream. And the three of us are only scaling the Chrysler Hi Rise, $52 for up to four – never mind the $998 Empire for six to eight.

        Some marketing whiz may have invented what America calls the New York cut way back then. Possibly it resembled City Hall’s marbled slab of prime sirloin. Maybe grandpa’s hashed-browns were this crusty, this generously dished out, but I doubt they were so pristine, so clean. We’re tasting the discipline Meer picked up in our town’s French finishing schools. After ten years of “packing my knives” for André Soltner at Lutèce, as the chef puts it, and seven years before that at La Côte Basque, Meer may be imagineering Old New York, but he can’t help refining it, too. And he’s just about shrugged off any foreign trendiness, except for an occasional squirt of truffle oil or a Tuscan toast.

        Once Meer decided his first-born, the Cub Room, could thrive without his constant attendance on its corner in SoHo, he spent a year excavating this giant space in TriBeCa – actually running a preview of City Hall for several months in the awkwardly narrow adjacent space till construction upheaval forced him to shutter it. I suppose a crotchety critic might see the sprawling dining room as too like a school cafeteria with its light wood, naked tables, and open kitchen at the rear. But I like it, especially the wonderful photos of old New York street life in light boxes. And P.S. 6 never had a pair of shuckers working on a hill of frosty crustaceans. Or padded booths. And for agoraphobes, there is intimacy in the bar – a space that was itself twice a restaurant, first as 131 Duane and, before that, the Pearl Room.

        If the iceberg wedge with blue cheese doesn’t make you giggle, there is a slightly too salty chicken consommé with matzoh dumplings and a few Waspy ovals of carrot to eat and contemplate. Clearly a mixed marriage. Some of this is nursery stuff, but only if Julia Child was your nanny. Meer has dreamed up seafood tetrazzini, dared a turkey-burger melt with Moscow mayo (Russian dressing, I do believe), given the chopped salad green-goddess dressing, and revived the classic Delmonico steak. Sorry, the cow loses the battle to an excess of blue cheese in this revival. Go for the marvelous double steak on the bone, a behemoth served stunningly rare.

        Like me, the chef used to haunt the counter at the Grand Central Oyster Bar, sitting just in front to watch the cooks mixing a shellfish pan roast to order. I find their blend of cream, half-and-half, and Worcestershire sauce with clams or oysters on crustless Wonder Bread irresistible. Meer likes it less creamy and minus the Worcestershire. His version is still very tempting.

        Except for the scattering of kitsch, the theme here is simplicity. The Chesapeake she-crab soup – blue-crab bisque with peeky-toe crab afloat – is creamy perfection. Raw oysters sparkle. Calamari, oysters, and giant shrimp – you name the combination – are carefully fried (but might be more lightly breaded). Of course, in classic Manhattan steakhouse mathematics, most steaks come solo on the plate, and sides for the table are $6 to $8 extra. Sheer greediness when entrées run $18 to $29. Still, I don’t see dollar signs when I’m eating the fabulous hashed-browns, better with every visit. Meer roasts baby beets, intensifying their beetiness in a way sour cream can’t dull. But curried onion rings are slivered so thin, all you taste is fat. And the fries can be top drawer or merely very good. Meer says he experimenting with the size.

        The kitchen dos well by peppered tuna and the “Scotch tenderloin,” slang for hanger steak. The whole fish, presented and then impeccably filleted, was overcooked the first time, just right the next. And the lamb saddle – not rare as ordered – needs seasoning. But classic sauces like béarnaise and hollandaise, for the broccoli, are a cinch for anyone who teethed at Lutèce. These are textbook. And the kitchen gets more competent every day, as it always does when the chef is a pro.

        Customers may recognize Tyson Tinsley from the Palace, Jams, and recently, Mad Fish. He manages a house free of downtown attitude and oversees the cellar, guiding us to a couple of sensibly priced reds that go well with steak and tuna – Niebaum Coppola Claret at $28 and Vacqueryas from the Rhone for $30.

        Meer never understood why his Cub Room opened in a flash of almost fatal trendiness. Food lovers had to navigate past barroom frenzy to reach the serenity of the dining room. That’s not what he’s seeking here. He’s got two private rooms, and a catering director who worked at Smith, Barney. When the kitchen is steadier, he’ll start his daily specials. He waited five weeks before opening for lunch, offering sandwiches, chili, an omelet, pasta, and an excellent burger, $6 to $14. Even desserts are getting simpler and homier, as I discover tasting the marvelous pear upside-down spice cake and pumpkin pie with pecans.

        “My staff knows what I want,” he says. “I’m into control. I learned that from Soltner. “If he has his way, City Hall will be a “hall for the city.” So far, no word from Mayor Giuliani.