There never was anything on the east Balcony of Grand Central before Métrazur. There wasn't even that staircase leading up to it. So it's a bit disconcerting to encounter a restaurant that, save for two Daughters-of-Xena-style candelabras, barely announces its presence. Its setting is even more striking when one realizes that this is the work of partners Tony Fortuna, whose Lenox Room is toniness defined, and executive chef Charles Palmer, whose original décor for Aureole bordered on assault.

Métrazur's drastic understatement threw me off at first; its neutral-hued comfort held little grandeur. Michael Jordan's, across the Concourse, had a splashier vantage point. Even the creamless cauliflower soup, though lovely, only heightened the monochromaticism. Shrimp-and-lobster spring roll was an uncharacteristically light and airy dish for Palmer; rigatoni with veal ragout and leeks, uncharacteristically uncomplicated and pleasantly haimish. The coriander-and-parsley crust on the tuna loin was nifty but never connected with the monotonous red fillet. Tender-enough-to-shred short-rib casserole was appealing, speckled with chanterelles; and artichoke-necklaced snapper was simply elegant. But I was more restless than hungry. I wasn't getting the idea here.

Well, restaurants sometimes have an off night. And sometimes diners do. This place, which previously seemed too unassuming and rootless, now feels incredibly calming, sanctuarial in its low-slung anonymity. Oh, there's a bit of a buzz at the bar. But I've come to regard the dining side as a restful perch from which to watch the rest of the world go by. To order a pot of mussels steamed in a frothy, lightly citrus-scented nage of lemongrass and read Doctorow's new book. To toy with an arugula, fennel, and blood-orange salad, enjoying each sharp ingredient as if I had nothing else to do but lick off the olive oil. To gnaw the crackling, juicy duck confit down to its teensiest bone and contemplate having another.

The overcooked and muddy tiger prawns, soppy and unbalanced shrimp-and-chorizo risotto, and bizarrely pudding-sweet lobster-and-shrimp parfait rattled my daydreams, but you can get so completely lost in sucking parts of the fire-roasted lobster in carrot reduction, and wood-grilled chicken in a not too coy parsnip-and-chive purée that you may never hear them announce your track. Who'd ever have thought that you'd go to Grand Central to get away from it all? Métrazur won't bring you nirvana. But it does offer you peace. And an excuse to reenter the most wondrous building in town. Okay, so the planetarium has those glass walls, that Zeiss projector, and Tom Hanks talking. Hungry? You might as well be on the moon. With apologies to Messrs. Muschamp and Goldberger, nothing lifts great architecture like a good meal and a real cloth napkin.

Métrazur, Grand Central Terminal (212-687-4600). Open daily, 11:30 a.m. to 11 p.m. Appetizers, $7.50 to $13; entrées, $19 to $32. All major credit cards.

Related:

• Archive: “Restaurant Review”
• Articles by Hal Rubenstein
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