Breathes there a newfangled menu with soul so dead that it doesn't boast crab cake, seared tuna, an autumn risotto (pumpkin is the buzz now), and a Caesar with some cunning twist? Not that I mind when the Caesar is as good as this toss of romaine and arugula, or the crab cake as vivid-- with hints of cumin, lemon, and ginger. What I fear are those chefs driven to pound Escoffier and Puck into the ground-- conch sorbet kids. But that's not Kenney. What he and his savvy peers are up to is elegant food that suits the mood, with Mediterranean accents: green-olive tapénade, fennel and caraway toast alongside the tuna tartare, chanterelles and white beans with bacon and marjoram on strands of wheat linguine. And perhaps somewhat smallish portions make sense in a neighborhood where looking good in the chic new skimp is crucial.

        It was in this very spot, then Alo Alo, that Kenney first wooed our taste buds. He sautéed Italian then. His boss, Brazilian restaurateur Ricardo Amaral, took him along to coach last year's downtown launch, the Banana Café, a tad Brazilian but not alarmingly so. While he was away, a car drove through the plate-glass window at Alo Alo. The place dozed, wrapped in plain brown paper, till the two of them tied the knot on this deal-- a partnership to give Kenney a voice of his own. Uptown ambition, at uptown prices: $13 to $16 at lunch, entrees $17 to $22 at dinner, easily $100 and up for two-- even if you're just drinking bubbly water and herb tea.

        I'll count part of that as tariff for the magic, the freshness and whimsy imported with São Paulo designer Sig Bergamin: The handsome desk that greets you. The giant basket of apples, plums and pears (help yourself). The handcrafted copper bar and the stools in beige linen miniskirts. Votive candles in pierced-tin holders. Sepia photographs. Fabric sails filtering light, softening the edge of glass. The blonde in a pith helmet on the far banquette couldn't seem more at home in the rain forest.

        Even early on, there's a press of good-looking East Siders, the overflow flirting on the sidewalk one balmy night, tables so close that waiters can only slither through sideways, one at a time: a relay race. Waiter. Bread. Wine. Water. Spoon. Oops. They're sleek, all right, and handsome, spacey, or oozing attitude.

        "There's a door open somewhere," we cry on a later, wintry eve.

        A laugh. "Sorry, we're watering the plants."

        "Can't it wait till later? We're freezing."

         Shrug. "If we wait, they might die."

        Success may make them more arrogant still. I hope not. But anyway, till then, drop by for deftly grilled squab with quick-seared foie gras, Muscat grapes and roasted pear in a hint of balsamic vinegar, or two impeccably seared scallops atop zestily dressed yellow potato salad salted with Osetra caviar. The cod is a bit bland (though not its truffle-oil scented potato purée) and the snapper too cooked for me, but its crusty edge and sweet garlic add savor. Fabulous vegetables -- salsify and scalloped parsnips -- distract for a moment from fine seared venison. Yam ravioli are a sweet grace to the grilled duck. Moroccan olives and crackling phyllo doodads filled with meat accompany baby lamb chops. And zesty spinach risotto with fresh curry leaves nest two small tails of charcoaled lobster.

        Endive and pear spears in a Roquefort vinaigrette with cheese spread on grilled walnut bread strikes me as a perfect lunch. A handful of dinner ideas are recycled with noontime garnishes for heartier appetites, but our fussy trio loves barely charred tuna brilliantly seasoned with mined olives and sun-dried tomatoes in vinaigrette on sprightly greens with capers or caperberries (depending on the supply), and a wonderful vegetable sampler: risotto, ratatouille, turnips, beets, and grilled asparagus today, something different tomorrow.

        There's delicate crème brûlée with lovely butter cookies and, one evening, luscious chocolate sorbet in an orange sauce, but certain desserts need fine-tuning. The maple mouse tastes like nothing but cream, the chocolate tart would be better with cooked plums rather than raw ones, and the port-wine flan has already been recalled. And thank, Matthew, for the cookies - gift of the house.

        In no time at all, Demi's neighbors have filled the tiny tables that cozily look out to the street through iron grills and climbing vines. The serving crew is rough-edged. One Sunday, there seem to be three idle waiters in waiting and only a lone waiter actually waiting. Even the kitchen "hasn't hit full stride yet," the chef observes.

        Still, Wilson's thick chick-pea porridge with swirls of arugula and grilled crouton is splendid, as is a saffron broth with basil ravioletti and vegetable. The name Demi was meant to reflect a mixed message -- half French, half Italian, a bow to his partner, Gennaro Vanacore (who grew up in a pizza parlor and owns Café Equense and Caffe Grazie farther downtown). Call it Continental if you will, but what we're eating here is up-to-date American.

        Wild mushrooms with sweet garlic cloves and triangles of polenta -- crunchy on the outside, soft within. Fine duck mousse with fresh figs and slightly underdone haricots verts. Autumn vegetables layered and glazed, sprinkled with fresh thyme and basil chiffonade, crowned with crisp fried onion ringlets. A Provencal fish stew is actually a gathering of shell critters in a savory broth with rouille-dabbed crostini. The pasta of the day might be fusilli with shrimp, shiitake, and sun-dried tomatoes. Red snapper sits on lentils and Swiss chard with shoestring potatoes, spinach, and roasted red peppers. One night's special osso buco comes banked with orecchiette in a staccato of chopped vegetables.

        Desserts are mundane afterthoughts: unremarkable profiteroles, lackluster crème brûlée, a raspberry tart singed on the bottom, sticky chocolate terrine with poach pear. Lemon-curd napoleon and soggy apple tart may be winners by default.

        Easy food, familiar, designed to pleas the neighborhood, a quarter where most men wear ties whether they have to or not. Probably not worth a long detour, I suppose, but good news in Carnegie Hill.

1316 Madison Avenue, at 93rd Street. Now closed.

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