Yes, it is faintly fuddy-duddy. Difficult to imagine the twerps and trollops of the night blissing out here, or Mortimer’s menagerie hurling itself westward. As one explorer from the volcano’s edge lamented, “This isn’t fun at all.”

        It’s not that Patrick Clark’s new Metro is all that calculatedly stuffy -- the easy shirt sleeves of the wait crew, guys in ponytails, lighten the stodge. But the subdued, neo-Pullman setting, with its discreet charms -- light mahogany paneling, deep-emerald banquettes, filtered light, designer Adam Tihany’s whimsical chairs -- can’t help but please the haute bourgeoisie, the well-heeled burghers of the neighborhood. And free for the first time to whisk to his own beat, Clark is cooking better than ever.

        At first, it’s a shock. We expected a little slouch -- the clattery clubby-hole of West Side Luxembourg or the artless downtown laissez-faire of Odeon, where till last year Clark created the menus and bossed the kitchens. But having scoured the town for a station all his own and settled on what was once Adam’s Rib in the venerable Volney, Clark is wisely focused. The kiss of chic is too often the kiss of death.

        The pension plans and trust funds have long legs in this Zip Code, with dividends to cover the tab at Metro -- reasonable if one is nibbling a bit from the low end of the menu, dizzying if one gives in to foie gras, lobster, and a $5 double espresso (appetizers $6 to $18, entrées $15 to $30). And after-theater or fleeing the rubber-veal charity ball or bruised by rejection at some velvet rope, early nightfliers may find calm and comfort at Clark’s 11:30 PM supper with sparkling salads ($7 to $14.50), omelets ($6.75), or chunks of impeccably cooked swordfish and salmon en brochette served with a delicious swirl of pasta ($16).

        Be warned. Early on, the kitchen creaks. Timing is off. “Your table isn’t ready yet,” a hostess greets us, with an aggressive snap that suggests we are to blame for a prompt arrival. Grumbling quartets are stacked in the bar at 8:30. I suspect the perky greeter thinks her cheekiness reflects confidence and sophistication rather than arrogance. “If you walk slowly, your table might be ready when you get there,” she instructs. We amble along on the handsome Oriental runner, through the arched tunnel with its lovely pastel stenciling -- but not slowly enough. Bread plates have been forgotten. And we need that crusty bread, because it will be 9:30 before appetizers arrive, each thoughtfully delivered to the wrong person.

        How quickly the sulks fade away. The food is very good, straightforward, happily untortured. For my taste, the chicken could spend less time in its clay-pot roaster. And at times, someone goes berserk with the saltshaker: Two little ovals of duck mousse are salted beyond redemption, as is otherwise beautifully cooked halibut on a nest of vegetable dotted couscous trailing hints of exotic spices. But thin and elegant buckwheat crêpes sandwich a trio of enticements -- a plop of good black caviar, a seduction of crème fraîche, one perfect poached egg -- all napped by chive-flecked butter.

        If you’re lucky, there will be a rich cache of crabmeat in beignet, or the sea taste of oysters and earth scent of morels perfuming a creamy glazed gratin, among the changing specials. And there is always the menu’s warm squab salad on a tumble of splendid greens laced with cabbage and thinnest string beans, and delicate sautéed sweetbreads with mushrooms on wild greens in a hit of hazelnut oil. A toss of chicorée frisée and Roquefort with meaty lardons and garlicked croutons is fresh and intense. And a lemony sauce plus the tapestry of textures gives oomph to a chicken-and-artichoke terrine.
   
        Veal stock and caramelized onions emphasize the meatiness of a monkfish steak (just a shade too cooked for our gathering of rare-fish fans), and the tang of black-olive-infused butter works brilliantly with swordfish (though tonight’s is somewhat soft and grainy). But one evening’s rouget-barbet (an import from the Indian Ocean, according to our waiter) is perfection in a saffroned cream.  
   
        Asparagus and fava beans are fine springtime accents for sweetbreads. Wild mushrooms, asparagus, and saffron flavor excellent risotto. Buttery potato pancakes and whole roasted cloves of garlic come with that crusty clay-baked chicken (when I ask for it “not too cooked” on the second tasting, the dark meat is exactly right, the white meat still a bit too dry). The Indian spicing and almonds of the lamb loin are a question of taste, but the tangle of fired onions is irresistible. And I forgive the fussiness of a puff-pastry boat with the roasted breast of duck because the mango-ginger-and-lemon-peel chutney it carries is luscious, and I am truly content with so much that I’ve tasted.

        Metro’s wine list is admittedly young, but it’s nicely eclectic, with a few half-bottles and enough listings at $15 or under to please penny-pinchers. The ’80 Calon-Ségur is ripe and tasty, and only $20.
   
        Pastry chef Vicki Wells does crème brûlée with an expert crackle, but most everything else is sweet or very sweet. Still, I am quite happy with chocolate-pecan cake in bourbon crème anglaise, and gossamer vanilla crisp with tart lemon cream. I even have a weakness for marzipan, as in the cherry-and-almond tart. The dark-and-white chocolate mousse with its crunch of almond tuile could use more of its intense chocolate sauce. Sorbet can be lackluster, flavors indistinct. Chocolates, curls of cookie, and mini-napoleons arrive with coffee.
   
        How long will it take for Clark to master clockwork timing? Already the pressure is building, the house booked weeks ahead for prime time. “We’ve got a wonderful long lease,” he says. “We want to become a neighborhood fixture.” There are no uptight dress codes. “If you look good, fine…we don’t want to be stuffy Upper East Side. I want to see myself grow.” Once his rookie staff hits a professional stride, he plans to create prix fixe dinners and a tasting menu.

        Clark’s father, a Restaurant Associates chef in the Joe Baum era, tried to persuade his son to stay out of the kitchen. “It’s too tough on family life,” he said. But Patrick had been experimenting at the stove since the age of nine. His mother still marvels at how much money he spent on cream cheese the day he tossed three cakes in the garbage trying for his fantasy cheesecake.

        Plucked from the graduating class at New York City Technical College to apprentice in the kitchen of Regine’s, Clark spent a season prepping for the disco’s debut in Eugénie-les-Bains under Michel Guérard. He’s not been back to France in ten years, but he reads -- Joël Robuchon’s cookbook is a current stimulant.

        And he clearly is in love with breakfast (entrées $8 to $17). The basket of homemade biscuits, muffins, and fruit breads alone, with vividly scented strawberry preserves, makes Metro worth a detour. There is homemade sausage, too, more butter-seeped potato pancakes with heavenly applesauce, and wild-rice-studded griddle cakes, plus eggs every which way -- Benedict, Sardou, in a country omelet with potatoes and slab bacon, or soft (the way I always ask for them but rarely am indulged), like curdled hollandaise, in a ring of fresh morels (perhaps an excess of morels because I’ve been recognized).
   
        The Sunday crowd is well dressed, decidedly geriatric, with a sprinkling of families, very East Side. And as I leave, the maître d’ approaches a middle-aged couple: “We’re just looking,” the man says, “because we’re moving into the neighborhood.” He is studying the menu, jotting down prices. Shivers of chic and electric thrills are the last thing he’s looking for.