By Paul Reidinger

RESTAURANT NAMES OF a single syllable can be a little short on style, but they do have a way of sticking with you like a punch in the gut. Home might not be particularly musical, but no one is going to forget it, just as no one could forget Dine – at least until it went out of business. If you visited Soups, you knew what you were likely to be served. Myth is slightly fancier, of course, though easier to type than its drastically abbreviated predecessor, mc2, which, with its curious superscript, required special attention in the formatting menu.

Range, which opened in July in the old Timo's space, sounds like it ought to be about roaming deer and antelope (or possibly buffalo), lassos, and dust. The motif is easy to imagine, beginning with the swinging half-doors of saloons in Wild West towns, except that every preconception the name might have excited in your mind will be banished the moment you step through the door, which is of the nonsaloon variety. The decor is modern and spare, the paint scheme a pale sage, the lighting halogen, the dining room skylighted: Yes, it is upscale, yet another elegant installation on a once-forlorn stretch of a once-gritty thoroughfare in a once-tough neighborhood. If this were 1999, it would all make perfect sense, but because it is 2005, it might be time to revisit our boom-crash timeline.

There is something generic about Range's moneyed hipness. It is handsome but studiedly inoffensive, with the possible exception of the color-coordinated blood-bank refrigerator doing duty behind the bar. Even the dreamy name turns out to be prosaic; when I asked our server what it referred to, she cheerfully replied, "The stove!" I did notice scads of same-sex couples, sometimes clotted into larger groupings, which did suggest that the restaurant has already found a place in the hearts of the gay bourgeoisie, though whether the gay bourgeoisie retains any edge at all is a question. (An interest in edging is a different matter.)

It is hard to say whether "stove" or "range" is the more boring term, unless one is a stove queen, but it is easy to live with the dishes that are being prepared on that great (though unseen) implement. Even early on in the restaurant's life, the kitchen has come up with an unforgettable signature dish; it is the coffee-rubbed pork shoulder ($16) served with creamy hominy (like a cross between soft polenta and mashed potatoes) and braised greens scented with coriander and cumin. The accompaniments are fine, but the meat itself is extraordinary: slow-braised to such a degree of tenderness that you don't need a knife to eat it, and with a mole-like sauce that somehow has a little more sass than mole. And: It is not fancy, not pretentious, not overdone. It is perfectly conceived and executed.

Most of the rest of the menu isn't quite so muscly in that New American grain. We hoped for some New Orleans-style boldness from the bay scallops diablo ($10), which we were assured was spicy but turned out to be – despite an impressive oblong crock and a bubbling white sauce streaked with paprika – sweet. Salting helped restore balance but supplied no devilish bite.

The food, at is best, reflects a seasonal whimsy reminiscent of Quince's. A salad of marinated fennel ($8.50), roasted nectarines, and goat cheese, is a lovely and unexpected combination and also incorporates the wisdom of roasting or grilling stone fruits. Cubes of creamy albacore ($9) are bathed in sesame oil and served with watermelon sprinkled with spiced Hawaiian salt. And a handsome variant on Caesar salad brings together romaine spears, radishes ("little gems"), and fried capers into a surprisingly savory ensemble.

The main courses are, for the most part, somewhat less compelling and witty than their appetizer cousins. Of course, grilled king salmon ($18) is always a treat and is especially so this summer, a time of comparative dearth due to fishing restrictions, but its entourage here of corn, chanterelles, and escarole in a tarragon-mustard butter sauce was close to ordinary. Halibut ($19) with braised artichokes, almonds, and cooked-egg tartar sauce was also slightly meek. The de rigueur vegetarian dish, packets of chard stuffed with barley and mushroom ($14), was rescued from overcautiousness by a tempura-fried squash blossom, a crisp golden wonder that looked as if it might have been brought up from a sunken galleon on the Spanish Main.

Desserts close the circle of whimsy, although for me there is no dessert better than an unwhimsical snifter of Calvados ($9). This is one of my lonelier positions; fortunately for my companions, Range offers a range of attractive – and far less fiery – alternatives (all $7), including pistachio waffles topped with caramel gelato, huckleberries, and dark chocolate cream; a fabulous honey-almond cake with a white-chocolate strawberry sabayon (the underpowered sabayon needs a rethink); a hazelnut-butter crème caramel with toasted brioche and raspberry preserves (like the waffles, a child's dream breakfast), and a roasted nectarine cobbler with cinnamon brown sugar ice cream and vanilla crème fraîche. In a word ... no, a syllable: good!

Range. 842 Valencia (at 19th St.), SF. (415) 282-8283, www.rangesf.com. Dinner: Sun.-Mon., Wed.-Thurs., 5:30-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5:30-11 p.m. Full bar. MasterCard, Visa. Moderately noisy. Wheelchair accessible.