Back To The Future

         Tell me a restaurant where I can soften my banker's heart. I need a spot for fussy gourmands from France.  I want a quiet romantic hideaway. Is there a secret place you love that's not on everyone's must list?

         The answer is Mondrian, plush, tranquil, as sedate as your banker's boardroom, with discreet corners where a kiss could not possibly offend. The welcome is warm, the service almost top-notch (except when waiters collide), and with Thomas Colicchio at the stove, Mondrian is the ideal classroom to show your most pampered French chauvinist what American chefs are up to. Expect aristocratic little greens and grasses, winter tomatoes that defy the season with their flavor, sashimi-grade tuna so fresh it's still swimming, scallops only a Maine diver could harvest, fingerling potatoes so refined they deny their humble rooted beginnings.

         Chestnut-crusted foie gras, seared to perfect melt, with onion purée and lingonberries. "American foie gras…hmmm." Your Gallic chums will purse their lips. "Not bad at all." Grudging admiration. Those inbred potatoes layered with feathers of parsley and drizzled with caviar. "What a work of art." The swiftly glazed scallops on tarragon coulis with a touch of tomato compote and roasted fennel. A nod of the head. And they'll find the sparkle of tuna-and-salmon tartare, with its prize tuna belly, so impressive they'll forgive the elusiveness of sea urchin in the vinaigrette.

         A few sips of the American Pinot Noir our captain suggests -- Étude 1988 -- may prompt the most fervent French-wine merchant to murmurs of unabashed approval.

         Even as an adolescent, Tom Colicchio couldn't stay out of the kitchen. He cooked with his mother and grandmother, moving on to a prep-work job at the New Jersey country club his parents belonged to. From the Quilted Giraffe, he went to the Gotham, then Rakel, with time for three months in André Daguin's Auch kitchen and a month absorbing the fanatic gospel of Michel Bras (in the middle-of-nowhere France). Given his mentors, its no surprise that his cooking is complex. Unlikely herbs fly all over the place. Onion marmalade. Fig jam under Parma ham. And most of the time, his flights of fancy seem to work.

         At the next table, a woman attacks everything with her salt shaker. Underseasoning is an occasional blip. Young and very rare venison with pumpkin won ton definitely needs a hit. And even that magnificent tuna, seared in a thick chunk and then sliced, is a bit bland in spite of a cracked-pepper crust, but I love its white-bean "stew" with tangy lemon confit.

         Next to Le Bernardin's ethereal rendition, Colicchio's sea-urchin row in shallot butter with crab, peas, and potato purée in three spiky shells seems distinctly earthbound, but it's delicious. In a typical Colicchio touch, a sprinkling of curry dust and shards of pepper on the plate are added "just for their scent." Risotto pancakes with wild mushrooms, oyster root, and smoky pancetta make a hodgepodge that would be a joy for brunch but seems heavy as a starter.

         I might wish for less gentrified chicken -- these small chunks with the crackle of skin are a tease. But the crab and cabbage in tomato-cardamom broth has a lovely tart sweetness. The lamb is first-rate. One evening's ricotta-and-sardo-stuffed ravioli are a triumph. A special of Columbia River sturgeon –rich and marbled as a prime steak, sauce heady with sweet garlic, served with artichoke and shiitake -- is splendid, as is monkfish on flageolets and white beans with crisp fried onions, and squab with huckleberries and creamy parsnip gratin. The teeniest chops, a button of kidney, tiny slices of liver, olives, and house-made-sausage enliven saddle of rabbit with potato ravioli.

         Colicchio dreams up desserts, and everyone on his team delivers them. The innocuous timbale of chocolate ganache that unleashes a waterfall of chocolate (its bay-leaf syrup is not ghastly at all). Warm banana tart like a giant satellite dish propped up on little "Tootsie Rolls" of chocolate with chestnut ice cream and a swirl of caramel. Lace cookies rolled around sweet mascarpone, served with honey-thyme sorbet. And the chocolate tasting: intense silken sorbet, wondrous pôt au chocolat, a miniature ganache, and dacquoise wrapped with a ribbon of thin chocolate cookie.

         The bread is like pastry too, now that baker Amy Scherber is installed in the kitchen. Every day brings another sampler of her art -- crusty olive bread, warm rich foccacia, prosciutto bread, and sesame-studded twists as chewy as a bagel (within a month, you'll be able to order her bread to go).

         Perhaps Mondrian's ambition and price tag belong to the exuberant eighties. With a high-priced wine, the six-course, $65 tasting dinner could cost more than $200 for two. But in a bow to the new economics, there is an à la carte menu one can dance through, sharing or skipping dessert (for health or the pocketbook), with entrées from $20 to $32, at lunch $16 to $24. If you're seeking cuisinary dazzle and a haven from the midtown madding -- and no one is challenging your junk bonds -- you may actually decide it's a bargain.

Mondrian, 7 East 59th Street  (935-3434)

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