Le One More

FIFTY-SIX RESTAURANTS in the Zagat guide begin with the French prefixes le, la, l' or les. While this is not reason enough to pronounce that the city no longer needs another French eatery, it does illustrate a point. Finding a good French meal in Manhattan is easy. Finding a good reason to open yet another French restaurant is not. The well-reported overhaul of La Côte Basque, now Brasserie LCB Rachou, and the closing of traditional French restaurants Lutèce and La Caravelle have been interpreted as the end of an era. Sophistication is no longer defined in French terms, and French food in New York City has become standard fare.

Nonetheless, there is a new French restaurant in town. Couvron is located on far west Spring St., placing it in the company of such New York classics as neighbors Don Hill's and the Ear Inn. As yet, Couvron-named for a town in France-is the only French restaurant on this scruffy square block, but I wouldn't be surprised if this fringe patch of Soho undergoes a Meatpacking District-type development boomlet in the near future. In the meantime, there's still an air of desolation that renders any restaurant here either a neighborhood spot or a destination.

The restaurant finds itself in the awkward position of not quite fitting into either of these two categories. At $8 to $14 for appetizers and $23 to $36 for entrées, dining at Couvron costs as much as at some of Manhattan's finer, more established restaurants. After having eaten an unremarkable meal here, I have doubts that Couvron would survive in this category.

On the other hand, Couvron's small space (it seats just 60) and the neighboring eateries, which are more downscale and cater to a local crowd, suggest that Couvron has the correct physical characteristics of a downtown neighborhood joint. But Couvron is too formal, too expensive and the food is too rich for it to be successful in this niche.

This indecision is reflected by the décor, which occupies the space between stuffy and minimalist. Walls painted a buttery cream are at odds with unsightly track lighting. Voluptuous portraits are hung generously, but the space still conveys an under-decorated coldness. Though tables were set with napkins tied in gauzy ribbon and banquettes were outfitted with Damask cushions, the space did not deliver a convincing air of luxury, nor did it convey modernity.

The restaurant is the second venture of a husband-and-wife team, chef Tony Demes and manager and decorator Maura Jarach. Their first joint venture, the original Couvron, opened in Portland, OR, in 1995. In the articles I read, the Portland original was discussed breathlessly. It was awarded national honors from Gourmet magazine and the AAA dining guide, and was consistently recognized by Oregon papers as one of Portland's culinary crown jewels. Judging from previous reviews, the Portland menu was comparable to New York's-similar ingredients, such as New England lobster and Hudson Valley foie gras are featured, and the food is fancy, French and expensive.

I never ate at the first Couvron, which went out of business when Demes and Jarach relocated to New York, but the steady accolades gave rise to several personal theories as to how a restaurant that I found unoriginal-if not obsolete-could have been so well received. One theory stems from an unfair and unlikely New York-centric judgment: that our palates are more sophisticated than those of our Portland counterparts.

A second, and more likely, theory is that praise for Couvron was flowing in the mid to late 90s, a time when the menu still seemed exciting. The same goes for Couvron's presentation, which was rife with the vertical constructions and gravity-defying garnishes that have gone out of style. A large piece of unctuous sautéed Hudson Valley foie gras balanced atop an oddly seasoned rare yellowfin tuna burger that tasted of cloves ($18) was a lukewarm combination. Tuna tartare with dijon mustard, shallots, capers and crisp potato disks ($14) was one of the better examples of an oft-seen dish. The freshness of the tuna and the peasant bite of strong onion and horseradish made up for the fact that disks of house-made potato chips were stuck into the tartare in a silly radial pattern.

Some problems seemed like they could be easily rectified: the over-salting of the house- cured salmon marinated in aquavit ($12), aka gravlax, and the Maine day-boat lobster with carnaroli rice, superb farmers-market beans and white truffle sauce ($36). Others seemed fundamental: The bouillabaise ($23) came with a bland broth, which was more redolent of water, saffron and vegetables than of deep seafood flavor; the Long Island duck breast with crispy walnut spaetzle ($28) was plain, and served too rare for my friend, who ordered it medium.

The most enormous cliché of our dinner was saved for the end. Though I enjoyed the freshly baked miniature madeleines, compliments of the kitchen, I had my suspicions when I ordered warm Valhrona chocolate cake with barley-malt ice cream ($10). I wondered if this would be yet another incarnation of the ubiquitous molten chocolate cake. Indeed, Couvron turned out to be the second new restaurant I have been to in a month to disguise a molten chocolate cake with an alias: "baked chocolate mousse cake" at the West Village's Citron; here, it's "warm Valhrona chocolate cake." It tasted good enough-it is Valhrona, after all-but I think the city is ready for a new chocolate dessert. I know I am.