By Paul Reidinger

ALTHOUGH FOOD WRITING (by which I mean, of course, others' food writing) leaves me cold more often than I would consider ideal – too much self-indulgent piffle, too many clichés – I was captivated by Andrew Todhunter's account (published a year ago) of a dinner at grand Paris restaurant Taillevent. The book (given to me as a gift) is called A Meal Observed (Knopf, $23), and while that title is a bit on the plain side, it does make a promise the author splendidly honors. The meal is indeed observed, with intelligent perceptiveness and understanding. And more: the book is built on a real emotional keel (the relation between writer and his wife) and digresses with an eye always to the narrative's larger purposes. Only one detail struck me as odd: at the end of the multicourse evening, Todhunter leaves the restaurant feeling "physically discomfited" by the load of food he has eaten and wondering whether you can "actually injure yourself" with a meal.

This could never happen at Hubert Keller's Fleur de Lys, it occurred to me recently as I rose from a multicourse dinner there feeling pleasantly satisfied but not overburdened. While much is made of the obvious arts of haute cuisine – the preparations, the presentations, the platings and sauces, the service that's attentive without becoming intrusive – too little is made of a less obvious art: making sure the various dishes, in whatever number and sequence, add up to enough food but not too much. An evening at Fleur de Lys is likely to be remembered for many things – from the tented ceiling and huge vase of flowers in the main dining room, to the marvelous array of tiny pots, casseroles, and flatware in and on which the food arrives, to the food itself, intricate and vivid without being fussy – but ending in bloat isn't one of them.

The server's first order of business, in fact, is explaining that the kitchen adjusts portion sizes according to what you order and what you prefer to have more or less of. You can choose three, four, or five courses ($68, $76, $88) from a menu divided into starters, seafood, meat and poultry, cheese, and dessert. There is also a vegetarian menu (for which the restaurant has long been noted); you can order the whole thing or mix and match bits of it with carnal items. The wine list is extensive and quite pricey; by-the-glass selections start at about $12 and soar from there, and if you and your gang happened to have recently robbed a bank, you might consider coughing up $11,500 for a six-liter bottle of Chateau d'Yqem.

If you take that momentous step, you can thoughtfully sip the wine and the money you have blown while nibbling at your amuse-bouche: a black chanterelle canelle, say, whose set of chive antennae give it the look of a lumpy bug creeping across a rink of slightly gelatinous white-bean purée. The amuse, among other things, introduces a tone of theatricality that recurs throughout the menu. A "duo" of foie gras includes a duck-and-liver burger on a brioche bun as well as a petite stew of fingerling potato, black chanterelle mushroom, and foie gras in an oxtail jus, served in a dollhouse casserole of Staub cast iron. A beet salad arranges the glossy coins of red and gold around an oblong pat of frozen cream flavored with coriander and mint: savory ice cream!

Even presentations that aren't so overtly witty are memorable. A small slab of roasted sea bass gets a "crusting" of chorizo rounds (I speak of the Spanish sausage – cured and laced with smoked paprika, which gives a rusty color reminiscent of pepperoni's) before being seated in a crock lined with orange-saffron sauce and mussels. Colorado lamb loin (cooked to the medium side of medium rare and exquisitely tender) arrives as a pair of stubby cylinders sitting upright in an earthy sauce of honey and whole-grain mustard, with, to one side, a pair of tiny cabbages stuffed with braised veal cheeks and, to the other (in another individual casserole), a gratin of potato, leek, and carrot. Those who fear effeteness in Keller's cooking will find reassurance in this last dish. And those who are wary of Gallo- or Eurocentrism will take pleasure in the occasional Pacific touch, such as prawns in a Thai-influenced sauce of curry milk and red curry paste and globes of purple Peruvian potato like melon balls. The dish resembles a fancy hor mok talay, except it's not served in a hollow coconut shell.

Desserts are clever and not. A grand marnier soufflé is quite straightforward, though you do get to pour in your own crème anglaise from the little pitcher. I liked the cardamom ice cream on the side; my companion didn't. But we both liked grazing through the blond caramel vacherin, which includes in addition to the marquee item – a mound of caramel ice cream nested in a meringue sunburst – a small square of banana genoise, a length of caramelized banana, and a tower of white chocolate mousse in a dark chocolate lacing. And only slightly less intricate is a chocolate mousse cake, disk-shaped and surrounded by quartered strawberries, with plenty of bronze-crisp tuiles on hand for scooping. We tried to do our scooping gracefully, in observance of the formalities of the civilized table.

Fleur de Lys. 777 Sutter (at Jones), S.F. (415) 673-7779. Dinner: Mon.-Thurs., 6-9:30 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5:30-10:30 p.m. American Express, Diners Club, MasterCard, Visa. Full bar. Not noisy. Wheelchair accessible.