We are tête à tête at a table for two at Lespinasse in the St. Regis. "Isn't this sort of place passé?" my guest asks. "Why are we here? This fancy fake room that feels like your rich mother-in-law's Park Avenue apartment. This old-fashioned fancy food."

        And quite frankly, I almost agree. Lespinasse is not my idea of fun, although it still strikes me as ideal for a noontime flirtation especially with those posh hotel rooms so handy. Clearly New Yorkers have lost their starch at dinner. We are increasingly addicted to casual dress, feeling cosmically cool in our Gap tees under Armani. "Do I have to wear a tie?" the reformed New York man moans.

        We lurch toward the latest scene, whether welcome or not, seeking the press of young bodies to keep the hormones flowing and attest to our unwithered with-it-ness. Still, I believe there will always be enough suburbanites craving luxury and decorum, young'uns hoping to impress the folks, St. Regis guests too tired or too timid to venture out into Manhattan's rumored mean streets. And who knows, maybe even you and I will find ourselves longing for discreet space between tables and glorious rococo-on-the-plate.

        There is good news for all these contrarians. The challenge of stepping into the spotlight on the heels of departed master chef Gray Kunz has jolted Christian Delouvrier out of his snooze at Les Celebrities in the Essex House. Less than a month after settling into Lespinasse's fabled two million dollar kitchen -- and after a short but inspirational taste tour of France -- Delouvrier is already hitting new highs. Audacious invention. Provocative flavor. Not what I expected at all.

        Anticipating a reprise of his sometimes listless Les Celebrities classics, I wasn't exactly racing to Lespinasse but when a friend and fervent fan of Delouvrier invites me to join his entourage for dinner, I realize I am curious. I scarcely need a sip of our host's extravagant Roederer Cristal to prime my taste buds. One taste of the chef's jewel-like amuse-bouche and I hear bells ringing, set off by the smart tomato tang wreathing tenderest tendrils of osetra-topped lobster claw nested on voluptuous avocado. Quickly I sense the surprise at our table as we share and pass, tasting the lush complexity in my butternut squash soup with chunks of duck breast, brussel sprout leaves and crusty foie gras. I find myself marveling at the layered perfumes of a jumbo sea scallop wearing a sesame tuile chapeau afloat in a curry-scented puddle -- the acidy touch of tomato confit makes all the difference. 

        Even the refreshened room I've always hated for being so French and so namby pampy, when it ought to be robber baron American, seems pleasantly mellowed. The rare privilege of private conversation is not to be sneered at. And there are more flowers. (Am I a bitch to report that they seem less exuberant?) As for the new paintings that the chef himself proudly points out, I shall only say what I said to him: A diplomatic no comment.

        A cynic might say all of us are being snookered by the kitchen's wanton profligacy with truffle and foie gras.  Indeed, the sternest critic can be jollied into unseemly surrender given a hurricane of truffle flutters. Hopefully, not me, because we are seeing black spots before our eyes everywhere: In the truffle-and-celery root salad with venison carpaccio. In the sauce of sensational baby pig on a stubble of cassoulet beans. Truffles are the earthy accent in the marvelous lobster risotto with favas and in delicate won-ton-wrapped ravioli of celery root and black truffle rolled in butter. Mixed with Banyuls wine vinegar, flowery olive oil and especially tangy pea-sized tomatoes, truffles exalt the vegetable ragout. In a soupy porridge of risotto infused with cèpe from the vegetarian-tasting menu, these elusive nubbins of  sacred dirt are a triple threat -- white truffle butter, white truffle oil and shavings of the potent fungus itself. But why not?  How else to justify the $135 tasting dinner, a $70 tasting lunch, a la carte appetizers $22 to $35, entrees up to $46. Wall Street titans still in denial may actually find comfort in such extravagance. Compulsive penny-pinchers like me will be grateful to the very sympathetic sommelier who makes a $60 Bordeaux seem like a bargain (as I guess it is in this pricey cellar).

        And if you're rich enough you won't make a fuss when the captain says you may have the seafood palette, normally for two, for one, and then by mistake (perhaps) charges you $56, the listed price for two. Granted, this sampler of fluke sashimi, bay scallop ceviche, smoked salmon, giant roasted prawns, caviar-topped oysters and tuna tartare -- all on its grand silver presentation platter -- looks for a poobah.  But $16 desserts are obscene, a call to the barricades, especially these desserts -- most of them neither architectural masterpieces (good for a laugh) or deeply satisfying. Too many are insipid mousses or custardy fluff, though the chocolate souffle is top drawer. But irresistible mignardises  (don't miss the passion fruit gels) plus chocolates in a little straw suitcase,  distract for a moment from the blow of the check. Although DeLouvrier has brought along his familiars, including Pierre Tagournet in the dining room, there are still mishaps. At times the chef’'s sauces are excessively salty. The spaces between courses can stretch into the night.

        Health-focused eaters may feel sabotaged when even the steamed bass comes swimming in butter and the accompanying string bean-caviar salad is boobytrapped by cream. Clearly this native of Toulouse expresses himself best with meat.  I urge you to brave the baby pig with cassoulet-beans he has so carefully sauced  to keep it from getting too rustically porky, or lamb rack and saddle boldly touched with Chartruese and coffee.  The rack of veal is a gargantauan chunk, wondrously moist, with cèpes and pistachio-studded sweetbreads.  In an echo of the classic style of serving pressed duck in two courses, he sends out venison two ways -- sensational carpaccio and lusciously rare chops, served rather awkwardly on side-by-side dinner plates.

        Granted Christian Delouvrier is no Gray Kunz, as he himself will tell you with winning candor. I say that in a whisper just so serious food-lovers won't be mortgaging the homestead for a meal here with unrealistic expectations.  But that should not subtract one iota from Delouvrier's emerging triumph. He's cooking at the top of his form now, surprising even himself. "I'm so happy," he says. "that it frightens me."