It’s tranquil today in the cavernous storefront that was once the stunning stage-set Café Seiyoken, a restaurant flash that committed hara-kiri, giving way to the fanciful glitz of the short-lived Il Palazzo. Imagine the motley congregation of ghosts that must cavort here as you hit the merry-go-round of revolving doors at 18 West 18th Street, somber now, stripped of theatrical trappings, as if someone hawked the family heirlooms to get the doors open again.

         Squint, and you could almost believe this is the fifth floor of B. Altman’s the day the closeout sale ended – nothing left but two glorious crystal chandeliers, the marble-look columns, grand old freestanding mirrors. And an army of empty pearlized-leather boudoir chairs from Jayne Mansfield’s bedroom, waiting.

         I suspect the wait won’t be long. Our town’s downwardly mobile eighties refugees are about to discover they can sup on Terrance Brennan’s upscale deliciousness at Prix Fixe for not much more than the tab at the neighborhood luncheonette.

         Choose a bottle from the astonishing roll call of labels at $18 (an ’85 Bouscat, the lively Châteauneuf-du-Pape of Brunier) or the surprises at just $26 – an ’85 Les-Ormes-de-Pez, ’87 Léoville-Barton. Then surrender to the sensuous complexity of Chef Brennan’s cooking. Shellfish pan roast with orzo, tomato preserves, olives, and a broth thickened with lobster-shell oil. His signature salmon tournedos in a horseradish crust. Grilled chicken made memorable with basil mashed potatoes and crisp onion rings. Nattily browned skate with wild mushrooms. Everything brilliantly garnished.

         Most anywhere else, entrées of such ambition would start at $21. Here they come with appetizer – salmon tartare in potato-gaufrette “saucers” with fennel salad, or spectacular ragout of corn, wild mushrooms, bits of walnut, and bacon under a toss of arugula seasoned with grated goat cheese – and dessert, all for just $21.

         There is a $36 prix fixe, too. In late September, it offered crusty crab cake in a puddle of gazpacho with an after kick of chile, or a wedge of foie gras with house-cured duck ham and figs in a hill of wild rice, barley, millet, kasha, and bulgur, or a splendid terrine of subtly smoked salmon layered with grilled summer squashes encircled by vodka oil, salmon roe, and tendrils of chervil. That’s just to start. Then came grilled tuna with a savory couscous and curried eggplant, or rack of lamb with fig chutney, mint oil, and an onion-mushroom potato cake. Plus the dazzling platter of chocolate – triangles of truffle, a warm flourless chocolate cake, frozen parfait, and a pavé of dark and milk chocolate between leaves of chocolate.

         All this just when we’d grown fond of downscale chicken at downscale prices. How can Prix Fixe do it? Trust Andrew Silverman and his calculator. He looks like any other dreamer with a ponytail. But he’s a veteran – he braved Manhattan with Cinncinati, which evolved into the Maryland Crab House, created Espace, and has put together his own construction team with a Chinese friend he met at the Fulton Fish Market.

         That’s where he shops before dawn, later on Fridays to capture the closeouts. And by signing Ave de la Houssaye (whose Texarkana sank a year ago) to shop for all his fruits and vegetables at the Hunts Point market, he figures he’s shaving 30 to 35 percent off food costs.

         Brennan, whose food I found too fussy in his days at Annabelles, is enjoying the challenge. In his most recent stint, at the Westbury’s Polo, he grew. And here he’s already soaring. Desserts – fresh-fruit consommé with berries and a shimmering ginger flan, almond-and-peach pound cake with peach nectar and peach sorbet, plum shortcake with fruit coulis – wear all the high-price squiggles of bittersweet chocolate and caramel, plus ovals of splendid homemade ice cream.

         At lunch ($13.50 or $18.50 for appetizer and entrée or entrée and dessert), there is sashimi-tuna tart and elegant smoked salmon club sandwich with bacon, tomato, and dill mayonnaise on brioche. The pasta of the day might be lush cavatelli with pesto, olives, roasted tomatoes, and orange zest. There are pizzas; the duck confit with caramelized onions could use a hit of acid – vinegar, maybe, or tomato. The burger comes on a supernal roll (house-baked rosemary-black-pepper focaccia) with cole slaw, sweet-and-sour onions, and great shoestring fries. And soon there will be a bar lunch – five tastes from a still life of goodies on display (suckling pig, perhaps, chile-rubbed steak with pipérade, seviche of fresh sardines, marinated vegetables, assorted chips) for $13.50 – to draw singles from the modeling agencies and photo studies that fill the innocuous buildings on these shabby side streets.

         So for now, I’ll forgive the hiccups of amateur service and the chef’s occasional eccentricities – like the basil sorbet with cracked black pepper. Why $21? I ask Andrew Silverman. “Because it felt like a magical number.” The magic is working. 18 West 18th Street.

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