By Paul Reidinger

THE TUSKS, Michael and Lindsay (no relation to the Fleetwood Mac album), could easily have named their Pacific Heights restaurant Tusk, perhaps with an African-explorer design motif like that of Banana Republic in the bygone days of now-gone Reagan. Instead they settled on Quince – the fruit, not the Spanish word for "15" – and under that pithy designation the place opened late last year.

On the counter at the rear of the dining room on a recent visit, I noticed a large platter of fruit: not quince (or quinces) but apricots, and a strong hint that at Quince seasonal considerations trump those of design imagery. The quince is an autumnal fruit, the apricot a taste of summer. Michael Tusk, who runs the kitchen, once cooked at Chez Panisse, so these small but important symbols of integrity no doubt come fairly naturally to him.

Quince occupies the space that for seven years housed Joanna Karlinsky and John Snell's Meetinghouse and, decades before that, a Victorian apothecary whose dozens of quaint wall drawers were charmingly incorporated into the Meetinghouse's interior-decoration themes. The Tusks, sadly, have dispensed with the drawers; they have also redone the slightly rustic green walls and burnished wood pillars with an elegant cream-and-burgundy color scheme that helps the small dining room seem slightly less cramped.

The cooking nicely matches the dining room's mood of unforced high style. If the Meetinghouse's menu was exemplary New American, Quince's reflects a definite Franco-Italian – and Chez Panisse – tilt. I was particularly struck by a plate of antipasti misti ($12); in most restaurants this would be a plate heavy with slices of cheese and cured meats, but here it is a summery mélange of baby carrots, elongated baby radishes, and cornichons arranged about squash blossoms stuffed with burrata (a cow's-milk cheese from the southeast of Italy), dipped in a light batter, then quickly fried to a delicate, crisp gold, like tempura. There is no question that the squash blossoms are meant to be, and are, the stars here, but the other ingredients, gently handled, manage to be supportive without losing their own identities. This, to me, is a sign that the chef understands and respects all the ingredients of a dish and knows how to give them play.

We found a similar ensemble effect arising from a salad of avocado, cucumber, purslane, and cherry tomatoes ($9) – the avocado being the star there, at least for me. A gorgonzola sformato ($9), on the other hand, concentrates its effects into a single, cheese-soufflé punch, delivered without adornment, because the kitchen knows adornment is not needed when the matter at hand is blue cheese and its tang.

The menu divides into first, second, and third courses (some sort of prix fixe option would be perfect but is not offered), with the second courses consisting, as in Italy, entirely of pastas. The portions, if not the prices, are something less than full-sized, which might disappoint those who want pasta for dinner but is probably a blessing for those others who mean to have a third course or who are simply not that hungry. And the secondi do tend to make up in luxe and vividness what they lack in scale; spaghetti ($20), for instance, is tossed with chunks of buttery lobster meat and shreds of lemon basil, whose tangy-sweet perfume radiates from the plate like sunshine.

The big dishes are discreetly sumptuous, though perhaps not quite as noticeable as their smaller relations. Leg of lamb ($26) is nicely, and plainly, roasted to medium rare and served in boneless slices with coins of roasted potato and a heap of quite delicious "long-cooked" green beans strongly supplemented with garlic. Meyer Ranch rib eye ($29) is similar – it's a roast rather than a steak – though bathed with a dark, rich sauce of red wine, morel mushrooms, and jus. And while the self-respecting diner is never supposed to order chicken in a restaurant (it is said to be the choice of those who do not know their own minds and so cannot not know what they really want), Quince's chicken alla diavola ($24) could well be the exception that proves the rule: a boneless half bird given a peppery spice rub (I was quite sure I tasted paprika), then pan-roasted for that sublime combination of a crisp casing and interior juiciness.

The fourth course – the stealth course – is, of course, dessert. Prices seem slightly overbuoyant here; a panna cotta of bittersweet chocolate costs $9, and while it is good and is enhanced with a compote of roasted cherries and a chocolate wafer bearing a dab of crème fraîche, it hardly seems epic. A slice of ginger cake, scented with the holidays and looking like a slice of homemade dark rye, costs $10, though the plate also includes chunks of ripe Arctic Glo white nectarines, which are pricey and perishable, so let it go. The frugal choice might be raspberry sorbet ($8.50), with fresh golden raspberries and zaletti (polenta cookies) – the last a classy touch.

But it may well be petty to wonder about prices at a place like Quince, where so much care is so plainly lavished on the ingredients, cost what they may. The best proof of this care is in the eating, and the next best is on the menu card itself, which bucks a deplorable trend by being laconic: "papardelle with rabbit," "tajarin with sage." More than that we don't need to know, really, and are not told. We trust that whatever it is we finally end up ordering will be of the highest quality and cooked accordingly. And so it is.

Quince. 1701 Octavia (at Bush), S.F. (415) 775-8500. Dinner: Sun.-Thurs., 5:30-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5:30-10:30 p.m. Beer and wine. American Express, MasterCard, Visa. Not noisy. Wheelchair accessible.