Long ago in a simpler life, before young American chefs became matinee idols and tycoons, the Sign of the Dove had a fling as New York’s most overrated restaurant. Not long ago, I heard it deemed the most underrated. In between, it was quite adequately berated. Oh, how one longed to love the Dove. It was so beautiful, so unabashedly sentimental and romantic. I remember discreet light bulbs inside colored bunches of glass grapes dangling from on high as the two of us shifted garden chairs to avoid a steady drip in a heavy rain.

       But one day, after transforming an unloved Austrian ski hut into Arizona 206 and a brash kid from the Bronx into the hottest jalapeño in town, the Santo clan took another look at their flagship. Advisor Clark Wolf was hired to revamp the Dove. Whom to credit? Chef, consultant, decorator, a devotion of Santo? I imagine there are stolid common folk, loyal through the evolution, who still come to mark the anniversaries over a veal chop. But for cuisinary snobs and postgraduate sensualists, the Sign of the Dove is suddenly home.

       Two giant bronze weimaraners now guard the door. The grapes have been banished. The house is even more romantic, with mirrors and rosy brick arches, explosions of extraordinary flowers, a different fanciful service plate in every room. At full tilt, the main rooms can be noisy, but the low-ceiling smoking annex with its ruffled Victorian lamp shades is even noisier.

       The bar has lured two generations of savvy Don Juans and amorous duos. Now it draws persnickety eaters for its wonderful bar food. Eager to tempt the neighborhood’s spontaneous drop-ins beyond the bar to the dining room, the Santo team dropped its dress code, replaced the high-priced prix fixe with laissez-faire à la carte, and watched chef Andy D’Amico’s dazzle delight the growing crush.

       Tonight, my glamorous but farsighted escort waves the blur of menu away and asks if the chef can do a special tasting – not the four-course $52.50 prix pixe that’s offered but five courses. “Whatever he pleases, and what red wine do you recommend?” Vanity’s bonfires provoke a luscious Gigondas ($32) and a parade of spectaculars: meticulously grilled shrimp with couscous and squash in a spicy fish broth. Ravioli of rabbit with fava beans in a complex bath of mushroom, demi-glace, and truffle oil. And what could be the ultimate tuna, seared rare with an intricate crust of peppers and coarse salt, set in a fragrant puddle of ginger, shiitake essence, garlic, soy, and sesame. Crisp quail with strings of daikon and carrot in an exotic brine, on ginger vinaigrette swirled with coriander and chili oils follow. After such amazing alchemy, sweetbreads with a noodle pancake is an anticlimax.

       Mere lunch a few days later might seem mundane. And, in fact, this one is. Is the chef himself out to lunch? Only a rather salty oyster-and-corn pan roast and superb minestrone of macaroni and peas with prosciutto, chard and Parmesan are pleasing. Perhaps the kitchen is a bit slow. (A critic in the house can stop time.) The better to sample five splendid breads from the Santos’ own bakery, Ecce Panis, three doors uptown.

       Now the Thai flavors that graced the quail set off crisp soft-shell crab. Lobster and oysters float in sea-scented cream. The sweetness of aristocratic scallops plays against bitter broccoli rabe on a pool of Indian perfumes. D’Amico, in his ninth year here (sixth in charge), never lets his creative leaps deter the meat-and-potatoes crowd. Yes, there are a pair of pumpkin pancakes and chutney with the duck, but the bird itself is recognizable… charred and meaty. And the goodies inside a balloon of cabbage (sausage, bulgur, pine nuts, raisins, and peppers) need not distract from tender pink loin of lamb.

       Even without couturier water ($6) and with a more modest bottle of wine, three courses can easily cost $140 for two, everything included. But the right dessert can blur the impact of the bill. Paula Oland, the drive behind Ecce Panis, creates the sweets here. A lusty rhubarb tart with streusel sticks crossed atop strawberry-swirl ice cream is my favorite. Segments of lime and tangy mango-lime sherbet temper the sugary attack of macadamia-nut baklava. And the sublime lemon ice cream is reason enough to order the blueberry strudel.

       Adolescence is a time to be flighty and shallow. I forgive myself. I forgive the Sign of the Dove. At 29 (in September), it’s looking adventurous and great.

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