777 Ninth St. NW (at H Street)

202-393-1400

www.oyadc.com

Open: for lunch Monday through Friday 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.; for dinner Sunday through Thursday 5:30 to 10 p.m., Friday and Saturday 5:30 to 10:30 p.m. Late-night menu available Wednesday through Saturday 10 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. MC, V, AE. Metro: Gallery Place/Chinatown. Valet parking at dinner. No smoking. Prices: dinner appetizers $8 to $19, entrees $24 to $35. Full dinner with wine, tax and tip about $85 per person.

The message on my answering machine one day last July sounded urgent: "Call me immediately." The publicist for Oya Restaurant & Lounge, whose review I had submitted to my editor the day before, followed her telephone call with an equally alarming, we-gotta-talk e-mail. Maybe she just wanted to confirm when the column would appear, I thought as I returned the message.

Maybe not. "The chef and pastry chef are leaving tomorrow," the publicist informed me. It was a restaurant critic's nightmare: hundreds of dollars for meals, hours of eating and writing time down the drain -- not to mention the idea of a large white hole on the page where my critique typically appears. I was staring at a weekend scrambling to come up with an alternative review and imagining the worst: "The Magazine regrets to report that, due to circumstances beyond his control, the author couldn't get his work done in time for publication."

What was bad for me was probably good for the restaurant, which debuted in March 2005 with the trumpeted goal of providing Washington with an ultracool place to dine, as if no such place ever existed, and serving "world cuisine," which, I've learned, can be shorthand for "we have no idea what we're doing, so let's just throw everything in the pot."

The truth is that the original Oya -- a sleek vision in white brought to us by a handful of hoteliers and others from Los Angeles, including co-owner Errol Lawrence, a native Washingtonian -- brimmed with unfortunate ideas. Some appetizers and entrees were so sweet they could have passed for dessert. And the kitchen seemed more intent on construction projects than on making sure its recipes made sense in the mouth. (In one strange display, pieces of crisped fried fish were stacked like logs in the base of a curved fish skeleton and offered with a moat of salty broth.) The servers seemed to take their cue from the cooks. "There are no specials," one of them told me, "because everything's special." I begged to differ.

Even after the top toque's departure, the result of "creative differences," I wasn't eager to return. But then, in late September, I got news that Oya had hired not one, but two "co-executive" chefs: Jonathan Seningen, who most recently cooked at Le Paradou in Washington, and James Stouffer, a former cook at Fiore di Luna in Great Falls.

The difference between the first and the current kitchen is evident as soon as you sit down and a complimentary tidbit is set before you. One evening the single-bite treat is dewy salmon served with a splash of cucumber water; another visit finds dark coins of venison carpaccio. Both snacks jump-start the appetite, and both raise expectations.

More often than not, those expectations are met (and sometimes surpassed). Seningen and Stouffer buy good ingredients and pretty much let them stand on their own, adding the occasional grace note to enliven the score. Golden tomato soup tastes deeply of the fruit. A hint of cayenne and a few tender shrimp in the liquid give the appetizer more sex appeal. Shredded duck is tucked into thick crepes, which are folded into triangles and presented with prettily carved cucumbers sauteed in butter, making a hearty and subtle first course. In a third appealing starter, rich oxtail is partnered with tangy tomatoes between paper-thin sheets of pastry for a superior sandwich of sorts. The chefs also make a respectable risotto, which they drizzle with a concentrated sauce of meat and pomegranate juices, and dress up with a bar of near-melting seared salmon. I'd like the shrimp-filled spring rolls better if they came with a more flattering dipping sauce (this one is salt-saturated), and the bluefin tuna tartare is fresh-tasting but otherwise blank on the palate. Following a trendlette in modern American restaurants, this one also serves sushi, including very good vegetarian sushi made crisp and colorful with a center of chopped apple, yellow bell pepper and carrot.

The menu descriptions tease readers with two or three words, underplaying some very good combinations. An entree of turbot, for instance, is followed by "brandade/leeks/oysters." The reality: pieces of firm, sweet turbot arranged one atop the other, then garnished on the plate with velvety poached oysters and soft, buttery leeks. The brandade turns out to be two croquettes made with striped bass whipped together with cream, peppercorns, bay leaf and Yukon Gold potatoes, then fried to a golden crunch. Similarly, a main dish of quail is trailed by "spaetzle/black walnuts/pomegranate." Two plump birds show up, expertly roasted and stuffed with silken chicken mousseline. Squiggly little dumplings (spaetzle) flavored with speck (smoked prosciutto) and a tart-sweet drizzle of pomegranate juice lend soothing textures and brassy savor to the assembly. In some cases, the centerpiece gets upstaged by its plate mates. Bland strip loin of beef is aided by a bundle of mustard-spiked white asparagus and a cream puff-like "souffle" sharpened with Roquefort. Sometimes, the opposite is true: Fat, fresh and buttery scallops are dragged down by a heap of limp and tasteless Asian noodles.

Generally, every dessert has something to like -- and something that needs fixing. The caramelized baby bananas poised atop fingers of bread pudding are delicious. Too bad the base is so dense (bread pudding shouldn't require a steak knife). A hot caramel souffle is shy on flavor and grainy in texture, but it comes with a couple of lifesavers: a scoop of pineapple sorbet and a snappy shot of lemongrass- and vodka-infused pineapple juice. The best of the bunch is a "winter dome" wrought from chestnut ice cream, poached pears and biscuits, then drizzled with chocolate icing and showered with (aha!) caramelized Rice Krispies.

Oya doesn't look like any other restaurant currently playing in Washington. High fashion prevails: A curtain of tiny steel links separates bar from dining room. A long and narrow fireplace hypnotizes us with dancing blue flames no matter the season. Mirrors are tilted so that even if you're facing a wall, you can spot the flow of human traffic behind you. Cool. The kitchen and cooks are visible behind a wall of water that prompted one friend to compare the scene to a carwash. Funny.

Aside from the servers' black uniforms and a splash of red tile, almost everything in the high-ceilinged dining room is white, or a shade thereof. That includes the leather tabletops, the banquettes, the Italian marble walls and a column of seashells that rises from the floor. At lunch, the scene looks a little stark; I prefer the atmosphere at night, when the lights are low.

But most of all, I appreciate the new faces in the kitchen. To all those doubting Thomases out there -- diners who dropped by Oya in its early months and vowed never to return: Never say never.

To chat with Tom Sietsema online, click on Live Online at www.washingtonpost.com, Wednesdays at 11 a.m.

Don Sacarob booked a table for "a quiet birthday celebration" last month at the 70-seat Tempo in Alexandria but was joined by lots of company after being seated; by his account, 50 or so people streamed in for two separate holiday parties. "With the decibels increasing by the minute," writes the Annandale reader, he complained to the manager. "I told him that he should have told us these private parties were booked that evening," so Sacarob and company could have made reservations elsewhere. The manager replied that Sacarob, who had called six hours earlier for seats, was at fault for not asking whether a private party was scheduled. Wendy Albert, who owns Tempo with her husband, Serge, disagrees with the employee. "It is not up to the customer to ask," she said when I contacted her about the problem. Had she been there that night, she said, she would have given Sacarob a gift certificate to return on a less busy occasion. "I'm very protective of my customers." Indeed, Tempo sends an average of 150 birthday and anniversary cards to guests each month, a greeting that entitles them to a complimentary entree. "We're normally not a loud restaurant," said Albert, who hopes Sacarob will give Tempo another try.

Got a dining question? Send your thoughts, wishes and, yes, even gripes to asktom@washpost.com or to Ask Tom, The Washington Post Magazine, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071. Please include daytime telephone number.