Defining American food is difficult, debatable. It's Grandmother's immigrant cooking. It's Hungarian, Czech, Swedish, and Chinese. As Schwartz points out, "The last great American restaurant was the Coach House. What was American about it? A Greek owner. Avgolemono soup. Baltimore crab cakes. Cuban black-bean soup. French dacquoise." That's what I want. A heritage revival taking advantage of all the glorious products we now have. Fusion on the menu but not fusion on the plate.

Except for the egg-yolk-booby-trapped avgolemono soup, Forgione has resurrected all the Coach House classics that Schwartz recalls (at prices that can boost the tab for a three-course dinner with wine and tip to $85). The Madeira-spiked black-bean soup is actually more southern than Cuban. The chef's Shenandoah Valley lamb rack, served with Jim Beard's hashed potatoes, parallels Lianides's Kentucky lamb. The first-rate veal chop is "real veal, slightly pink," from calves that are free to range. Old Coach House regulars will recognize the wild striped bass poached in court bouillon, though on one recent night it was overcooked and unforgivably bland.

There is a warm, old-fashioned feel of welcome at a first early meal -- our foursome almost alone in the unstylishly comfortable place. Spectacular house-made chips and toasted almonds are rushed to the table as we settle in, because "no one should wait without something to eat," Forgione explains. He recalls Lianides toting cheese-stuffed celery to folks waiting for tardy tables to turn. Warm biscuits are instantly seductive, as is wondrously intense beef bouillon in a half-filled demitasse, a gift from the kitchen. Seared Key West shrimp on a toasted hominy cake in carrot-ginger broth bridges old and new. Americana mingles with old favorites from An American Place. Forgione fans will recognize the cedar-planked salmon, for instance, with Virginia spoon bread. In a tweak of the classic shellfish pan roast, the chef tosses razor clams with noodles in a garlic jus. Duck, first steamed, then roasted and boned, gets a persimmon glaze. At lunch, the deconstructed turkey potpie is a triumph -- lots of dark meat and a perfect biscuit as a pillbox hat.

Sometimes the kitchen is off. Too-warm romaine hearts, an odd dribbled dressing. Oversalted clams. Sometimes it's just the dish that disappoints. Gluey potato dumplings. I love how the sauce makes cod taste like lobster, but adding cauliflower distracts. Yet as always, Forgione serves the best fried clams in town -- Ipswich beauties with plump, full bellies -- and an unbeatable tartar sauce. (No mango. No cardamom. No bean sprouts. What a joy.) And his desserts are a National Hall of Fame: Jim Beard's berry shortcake. Missouri-pecan pie. Rum-perfumed banana Betty. Warm bread pudding, the old Coach House crunchy mocha dacquoise, and, in winter, an exceptional quince tart with wildflower-honey ice cream.

In the fifties, when grand restaurants had to be French and outrageously haughty, the late Joe Baum dared to think American at the Four Seasons. Now his heirs at Windows on the World are betting on chef Michael Lomonaco's upscale regional favorites at Wild Blue, replacing the pricier Cellar in the Sky. Take a few minutes to follow the pedal pushers and tank-topped tourists into the Greatest Bar on Earth (Greatest, yet no free nuts?) for a stirring view that sweeps the East River and its necklace of bridges. Then escape to the instant intimacy of Wild Blue, in architect Larry Bogdanow's handsome rehab overlooking the harbor and Ms. Liberty.