Henry Meer looked weird at first all right -- even for live-and-let-live SoHo -- roaming his Cub Room with dangling locks trapped in a hairnet, a discipline exported from ten years in the no-nonsense kitchen of Lutèce.  Now he has sheared the shag. The net is history, and he's handsomer than ever, slim and dark with intense brown eyes, napkin bandana tied around his neck, poised to be downtown's newest matinee idol. Standing at the prow of the steps, overseeing the queue of bar hoppers late Friday night he is still in shock. This isn't what he had in mind at all. Immersed In the ritual of Andre Soltner's monastic cellar kitchen Meer had waited for the perfect deal and dreamed of restaurant greatness.

         And here he is, host with Orso maître d’ Philip Saunders, to jolly bedlam -- the bar hangout of the moment.  Strolling by this kinetic corner, pulled in as if by a cosmic magnet: Young mostly, nuzzling and guzzling, eyeing and earing and squealing. About the only way to clear a spot is to faint as one hot house flower does tonight -- having forgotten to eat, I suppose, or perhaps, to breathe.

         But amazingly, none of this tumult intrudes on the sanity of the far-off dining room where an eclectic and mostly civilized swarm are happily crunching organic greens and exclaiming over Meer's grilled duck. Not just another dumb duck breast in a chewy, tasteless fan, but lush and lean, crisp and faintly sweet,  with a nutty kasha pancake.  Indeed the boisterous bar, Meer's discount cafe next door and the subdued dining room coexist like three separate planets.

         One night you might spot Robert Redford with the stars of “Quiz Show” or Ethan Hawkes and Woody Harrelson a day later, or Veronia Webb. And yes, Meer was thinking of the private VIP Cub Room in the old long ago Stork Club -- the after theater hangout immortalized in “All About Eve.”  Great jazz voices of the 30's on the sound system play on that nostalgia. But mostly we're just common New Yorkers tonight, savvy but un-page six'd, determined anonymous first-nighters who always know where it's happening,  young married Villagers and a trio of what have to be bimbettes-for-hire rubbing up against three pinky ring types all recently disgorged from an elongated white Lincoln.

         Meer teethed on vintage glamour.  He loves the feel of the Carlyle dining room so he got designer Larry Bogdanow to put four round banquettes back to back in the middle of the room and tables in secluded corners. "There was nothing here...just a dirt floor, brick walls and a light bulb," says Meer. The rose-blush brick keeps the room warm and soft. Almost anything makes light -- odd Japanese fixtures, flea market lamps, an illuminated world globe, blue-shaded bulbs at the windows and white glowing through subway like grids on the floor. There are wide plank floors -- maple in the dining room, cherry in the bar and in the niche beside the big kitchen window with its two-sided fireplace where the chef's table seats l0 to l2.  (Once it even housed 22..."who became very close friends.")

         Weekdays early there are Wall Street suits and old friends from Lutèce days.  But except for the rich scalloped potatoes that show their French heritage and perhaps the smooth buttery finish of the mashed potatoes (in a town that loves its lumps), don't expect ancien tricks in redux. It wasn't easy to leave the womb after a decade -- "There was so much emotion and passion in that kitchen...and frustration too," Meer confides. When as sous-chef he finally felt ready to go, Soltner's reponse to his quitting notice -- "No problem" -- seems to have struck him as cold and unloving. "I don't think he'll ever come here," he says sadly, as if freshly orphaned.

         Now like the hairnet, waiters in black tie are vanished.  A savvy crew wears collarless cotton shirts, like l9th century French peasants.  And cream is virtually a memory.  He's producing contemporary American food, cultivating farm sources, "Repenting for my sins of killing people with butter and cream all those years," as he puts it. No need to feel fat-deprived. The  luscious (and occasionally greasy) deep-fried onion curls he sends out as a gift for the table satisfy the need.  As does wonderful country bread, toasted and brushed with olive oil.

       There are sprigs of perfect greenery everywhere as you'd expect.  Sprightly baby greens, purslane, pea sprouts, beet greens. A special one evening of mini-beets and aristocratic foliage with fresh whipped goat cheese on croutons.  Grilled salmon, tremulously rare one time, too-cooked the next, on Caesar-dressed lettuces. Lobster and duck confit with baby beets and small pear tomatoes, mango and grilled Videlia onion on a hill of greens.  Though too often the vinaigrette oversoaks.  The vegetasble terrine is a mosiac from a masterhand --- sweep peppers, leeks, zucchini, tomato, hearts of palm and portobello with little dots of ginger-papaya-tomato chutney.

       Saffron vegetable-studded risotto sings with flavor and one night's  garlicky linguine with clams is a classic but the fettucine with tomato and basil lacks oomph. In the first few weeks the kitchen may have seemed timid, tentative. But now Meer is finding his strength though at this point, he is most skilled with birds. Quail as a special with lentils. Squab crisp and delicious with ratatouille and white beans. That spectacular duck. Even a simple baked rosemary-rubbed poussin, the small chicken's skin crackling, the flesh moist on mashed Yukon golds with lemon spinach, caramelized garlic and shallots.  The Cub steak, pan-sauteed and flamed with cognac, is fine too.

        And big rare cubes of swordfish with mushrooms and vegetables, or rare slices of tuna with wahani rice are certainly good enough.  But even with its red wine sauce and fabulous carmelized onions, the black bass tastes flat and a shade over cooked as well. And the halibut is flaked and weary.

       Tonight's waitress makes us feel there's no one else in the room.  By dessert time, she's grown intimate enough to warn us against the lemon chocolate tart. "I don't like it myself," she says.  "If you come to eat Henry's food, you want to eat the best of Henry." Not that it's bad ---midway between a mousse and a curd -- it's just thin and anemic on its chocolate painted crust. These are souffles too, chocolate or Grand Marnier tonight, classically fluffy, classically boring. Some people think any souffle is a treat.

       "Don't be put off by the corn meal crust in that berry tart," our waitress adds.  If corn meal makes you think of deep-fried catfish, think again -- think of tart and powerful autumn raspberries in an astonishly delicate buttery crust.  Or try fig tartes tatin -- two small rounds with creme fraiche -- or a dense chocolate cake (if it's offered).