Folks bewitched by the cuisinary artistry of Gray Kunz hoped he’d somehow escape the gravity of hotel dining for a room of his own, cozy and welcoming. But scouts from the St. Regis, shuttered three years in a $100-million face-lift, pitched the unrefusable offer. Seriously Swiss, Swissly serious, Kunz couldn’t resist. So he crossed Fifth Avenue from the Peninsula’s Adrienne for the battery of a copper, a dream kitchen, a fortune in silver and crystal, no budget, freedom to stalk the land for the ultimate greens.

        A brass chef in a tall toque clutching a chicken is the handle of the door to Lespinasse (named on some inscrutable whim for an obscure saloonkeeper in the reign of Louis XV). With Maxfield Parrish’s famed mural of Old King Cole now cheering the bar, the chicken is as witty as it gets. Did they hang the grand Waterford chandelier, scatter faux-faded velvet armchairs to echo the dull carpet, color-by-number the forgettable mural, and run out of cash? It’s too bright and gloomy all at once. Only the niches in each corner seem inviting. And the captain who snatches the napkin to put it in your lap before you get settled is as annoying as the waiter who snatches it away before dessert so you can use the baby hankie square that replaces it. Galloping elegance.

        But I forgive the yawn of the room for the exhilaration of Kunz at his uniquely obsessed best. He’s up to all his old tricks, the minimalist cooking that speaks of the Girardet training, the Asian exotica of his Hong Kong years, fused in a glorious alchemy. The shock of the sweet. A balance of acid. Humble vegetables, newly transcendent. Even the Kunz-designed Burke & Burke-baked rolls are cruelly irresistible.

        A bouquet of seasonal greens with pan-fried cod. It sounds so simple. Quarter-smoked salmon (three months of experimenting before the Maine supplier got it just right) with see-through halibut draped around bits of leek, carrot, celery, and the citrus fruit calamansi in an olive-oil brunoise, caviar on top, and leaves that might have been dreamed by an artist of bonsai. Kunz picks through flats of mesclun for the few tendrils he fancies, and the hotel staff of 400 gets the leftovers for lunch. Baby leeks and a perfection of quail breast are sandwiched in a mille-feuille of crisp fried taro. A miniature of the chef-cum-chicken is the finial of the covered silver cassolette bearing chanterelles to spoon over parsley risotto as a starter. Savory oxtail stew sits on a hill of fennel, and ravioli arrive in a haze of sweet corn and heady black truffle. A barely gelled lobster claw floats in a consommé with a trail of Oriental spicing. Chilled coulis of yellow tomatoes hides tomato jelly and squares of the fruit, set off by snips of opal basil and lemon thyme.

        Obsessed if not megalomaniacal, Kunz lost the summer to research, discovering freshwater pike caught by Ojibwa Indians. The walleyes arrive just 48 hours out of Lake Superior (“so stiff I can hardly fillet them,” Kunz boasts) to appear firm, meaty, and sweet on endive gratin. Also from Michigan come small perch fillets to be turned in the pan till the edges crisp, then set afloat on a buttery bouillon of lemon verbena. Coriander-crusted salmon is cooked rosy-rare and served with red-wine-braised artichokes on a green artichoke heart. Black bass is steamed in a kaffir leaf reduction with red pepper, topped with a toss of fried shallots, lemon, orange, garlic, and fresh herbs. Crushed juniper and coriander seeds coat medallions of venison – best very rare – to be garnished with butternut-squash batons cooked in Sauternes and with butter-tossed gnocchi sprinkled with an essence of porcini. And I’ll be returning for sublime shrimp sandwiched between scallop disks – a marvel of careful cooking on a haunting emulsion perfumed with lovage – and for supernal sweetbreads glazed with citrus that seem to float on lentil stew.

        With an eye to our town’s closely watched pocketbooks, St. Regis director Peter Tischmann has tried to brake prices. Thus, lunch and Sunday dinner are $35. There’s a four-course $60 tasting, and a la carte entrées from $21.50 to $32 (with wine, tax, and tip, about $150 for two). The wine list is drinker-friendly: sixteen offerings in half-bottles and 35 labels at $30 or less (Chateau Magnol, an ’85 Médoc, is a delicious discovery at $27).

        Lured from Aureole, Richard Leach does his architectural desserts with flying buttresses of thinnest cookie dough and pulled-sugar Hula Hoops. But the crème caramel, warm “flowerless” (truth in typos) chocolate cake, and a bittersweet chocolate-espresso confection are dazzle without soul. Best is anise soufflé glace under a crackle of banana, and passion-fruit soufflé pouffed in the shell. Is the apple-and-cider soup with hot vanilla syrup poured through a pastry hole celestial or just silly? I can’t decide. And if you figure out what to do with that itsy-bitsy napkin, write.