He startled Parisians with macaroni and cheese, chicken wings, and bubble-gum ice cream at Spoon Food & Wine, then exported it to the Seychelles and to Ian Schrager's Sanderson Hotel in London, where it quickly became a canteen for the usual boldface names. Bergdorf and Le Printemps peddle his Objets: Saveurs kitchen equipment and tableware. Even eskimos in wired igloos can explore the world of Ducasse on his Website. Restaurant critic Gilles Pudlowski, looking at what makes Alain run in Le Point, calls him Ducasse le boulimique -- "perpetually unsatisfied." Having survived the plane crash that killed four companions in 1984, "he fights himself, trying to astound the world."

Now he cannot sit still. Mr. Spoons wiggles and twitches and muses. We are having breakfast at Petrossian. Wonderful croissants. He might do a Spoon in Dubai. "Fabulous city, have you been?" He loves the Basque country. He is thinking of what to do next in New York. Maybe an inn. "I love the Inn in Little Washington, Virginia." Alain Ducasse/Paris, transplanted to the Plaza Athénée, reopens in September. A new restaurant, 59 Avenue Raymond Poincaré, devoted to fruits, vegetables, lobster, and beef, takes its place at Le Parc. "You are the first to know," he confides, as if he were giving me an emerald. (And he's already dispatched an aide to buy one of those painted cows on our sidewalks to graze outside the door of the new gambit.)

"You are the talk of New York, Alain," I begin. He grins. He is almost adorable when he smiles, actually sexy. "Everyone wants to know who is my cabinet de P.R. Who does my publicité? I do not have a cabinet de P.R. I am only a petit artisan. Petit petit petit." He lowers his hand toward the carpet, thumb and index finger less than half an inch apart. "I am a petit artisan in a petit restaurant in a giant city." He sits there, his leg bouncing a little, picking his nails, which seem to be bitten. "Have you read my books? Well, I will send them this afternoon. If you read the books, you will know the real me."

On Tuesday, July 10, I call to book a table anonymously for lunch the next day. Very humble. The reservationist studies her schedule, murmuring, "Ah . . . mmm . . ." Infinitely polite, she sounds amazed but pleased to find a table for two tomorrow at noon. Though we've been warned the room is booked for eight and a half months, there can be empty tables, especially at lunch. No-shows. (From now on, the house will charge a $150 deposit on your credit card when you reserve.)

I arrive in time to catch a uniformed courier delivering baby carrots. The bronze whimsies of Parisian sculptor Folon have arrived, too. In the entrance, an urban man in a fedora, split down the middle. I chew on that symbolism till we're at table, with our own Folon mini -- a man with the Empire State Building for his head. Suddenly a figure in white leaps into the room. It looks like Jim Carrey. But no, it's Ducasse, advertising his presence, greeting an Asian couple in French. Is this the Ducasse who never goes into the dining room? He swivels and smiles. Aha. Fooled you, didn't I? Kisses my left air. Kisses the right. "Is it really you?" I ask. "Or is it your evil twin brother?" He smiles. He understands some English, but not everything.

Ducasse swoops into the dining room once or twice a night -- Escoffier only knows where he goes in between.

Then he's gone, like a brief apparition. And in his place are those nebulous rye tuiles again, offered like rare collectibles. But the bread seems fresher, and once again the young Belgian sommelier knows his lines, quickly offering a glass of the inexpensive Cabernet I liked last time when I reject his $30 glass of Pinot Noir as "too expensive." A drop spills. The waiter rushes over with a linen napkin to hide the scandal. And then another chef's amuse-gueule. Small and delicate bites of lobster en gelée with intense lemon cream, salted with more of that fabulous caviar, and for the first time I'm seeing stars, maybe even rainbows.

Granted, butterfly pasta with bits of ham and Parmesan is a yawn, and the pathetic roulade of sole reminds me of childhood at Longchamps. By mistake, the waiter brings Santa Barbara prawns -- a chance to note that they're remarkably livelier this time. Now I am asked to choose a knife for my squab from the dozen or more arrayed in a leather case. I feel like an idiot . . . if there's a best knife for squab, surely Ducasse should choose it.

"Give me a nice feminine knife, please," I say. There's no time to brood. Two perfect ovals of exquisitely rare squab arrive and I'm soaring again. I ask for a reprise of the tart and citric apricot compote topped with melting bitter-almond ice cream I fell for at that first shaky dinner. Dismissing my guest's pedestrian soufflé, I go for its partner, a refreshingly tangy tropical fruit on custard spiked with a faintly bitter splash of coco-Malibu liqueur. Then from the rolling goody cart: cherry claufouti, nougat, and too many caramels. Now I see a faint light at the end of this tunnel. I sense the kitchen finding its edge. I'm eager to return.

New York has gone berserk. By week three, we are consumed with rage against this monomaniacal intruder who thinks we will line up to pay $1,000 or more for a clever riff on the tomato that is not as thrilling as Jean-Georges's or Daniel Boulud's at half the price. We sneer at his $50 foie gras in a pepper bouillon and the $74 fillet of striped bass and suddenly find Alfred Portale's supernal roasted lamb chops a bargain at $36. Nonetheless, we join the line, scheming for a table. Could our grasping, aggressively insecure burg have given hotter press to Elvis if he'd been discovered dishing up fried eggs at the Essex? W predicted a feeding frenzy in June, surely feeding it. Ducasse was charm personified in Charlie Rose's hands. Then the Times critic chimed in with a "sneak preview" he said was not a review but read like a personal ad seeking someone with a reservation at Ducasse to invite him along. I guess that's a welcome of sorts to our town. What's so unthinkable about a $500 dinner? the chef wanted to know. Great products cost money. "When you go to see the Knicks to sit on the floor, it's very expensive, $500," he told the Times. "C'est fou, c'est extraordinaire, but it's a wonderful moment."

And in fact, the kitchen at the Essex House is demanding products that no one else in New York asks for, says his devoted supplier, Ariane Daguin of D'Artagnan. "Alain wants the foie gras wrapped in parchment, delivered on ice, not vacuum-packed. The most expensive squabs, strangled. Organic chickens air-chilled with the feet on. I had to get special permission from the FDA. It's costing him double the usual price. They are the most focused, the most demanding."

My friend Elizabeth calls in triumph. Her connection in Paris has pulled a few strings. We have a table at 8:45 tomorrow. The Road Food Warrior, having sworn never to return, decides to join us. ("I like that crack about the Knicks. Whoever fed him that line was clever.") We've got yet another VIP booth. The four of us feel rich and glamorous already. The crowd tonight is neither hip nor beautiful nor brand-name, but the chat is amusing. "Did you hear So-and-so was charged with killing his wife and children?" we overhear a woman ask. A man responds: "They are getting less and less tolerant about that kind of thing these days." Hoping to shed the absentee-chef charge, Ducasse now swoops into the dining room once or twice a night -- Escoffier only knows where he goes in between. Tonight he's a blur of white moving past my line of vision until he's sure I've noticed. A gift from the kitchen, silvery Iranian caviar piled on a perfect round of potato in buttery potato purée, is instantly disarming.

There is still much genuflecting over those ditzy rye discs, but we're caught up in the thrill of yet another amuse-bouche, tomato four ways: intense molten slices on creamy salad greens in a pungent tomato vinaigrette, with a saucer of satiny tomato sorbet on green-tomato preserve. Flushed from the sommelier's warm and rounded $32 Malbec from Argentina, we giggle over the possible uses of the odd gynecological-looking implement a waiter has left for Elizabeth. It's an asparagus lifter, we learn, so she need not dirty her fingers eating the crab croquette that comes with the pea soup -- for the first time, transcendent. Dishes I'm tasting for the second or third time are all tuned up a notch. The vegetable lasagna. Long, thin slices of lobster with a kicky ginger-tinged salsa. Exquisitely poached foie gras with apple confit and raw apples slivered razor-thin on a truffle slicer at the table. The thick salmon again, perfectly cooked, firm and expertly seasoned. I'm knocked out by the pow of its spooned-on condiment, caramelized sweet pepper and onion. The halibut is still overcooked, but its haunting sea-urchin custard and a crunch of seaweed salad are fair recompense. Even a breast of chicken, invariably abused and boring, shows mastery at the stove. I can't stop eating the voluptuous macaroni in cream and cheese that comes with the chicken. And the sautéed grenadin of veal with a chunk of steamed veal breast wins over our table's fussiest carnivore.