The Joy Duck Club

Fat chunks of meat floated in a bowl of mahogany-colored lobster bisque, richly scented with brandy. Carmen pushed the bowl away after the third sip. "If I took another bite," she said, "I'd have to say au revoir to my duck."

And that would have been a crime. The restaurant's signature dish, a full-breasted beauty, the dark flesh hot and succulent under a crispy sheath of translucent amber skin, arrives with great drama. Three sauces accompany it to the table: a piquant peppercorn, a tart pink raspberry and a glossy honey-almond.

"It's a very sensual dish," said Carmen, almost blushing. "You must taste it!"

I looked up to see if anyone was watching us, then reached over and procured a juicy bit of the meat for myself. But not too much, for I couldn't be unfaithful to my own golden honey-glazed hunk of roasted pheasant with a stuffing of shiitake mushrooms and lobster-flecked cornbread. Who cares about the décor? I thought. At the Duck Club, the sex appeal is all on the plate.

Maybe that's why chef Jeff Rowley has been allowed to add some spicy new dishes to a repertoire which in the past had veered away from anything too ethnic or too fiery. For example, the new chick on the block, a duck tamale, is drenched in a smoldering red chili sauce. And a plate of chili-rubbed shrimp came coyly arranged like can-can dancers on a mound of mildly seasoned chorizo hash, a riot of chopped cilantro, tender potato and cool tomato.

After all that, dessert would seem anticlimactic. But the Ultra Chocolatta Bar is included in the dinner prices (which are surprisingly nonthreatening, by the way), and Carmen, eager to throw herself upon it, did a provocative cha-cha down the steps to the brassy center display. Waiting there were custom-tailored cakes layered with whipped cream or fluffy mousse or boasting spun-sugar halos or raspberry chapeaus. Even if the place were redecorated, nothing on the walls could compete with the visual extravagance on the chocolate bar: cream puffs swirled in shiny fondant, a dense "Sin Cake" glistening with sugar crystals, a molten puddle of hot brownie pudding bubbling in a silver vat and anticipating a coat of warm vanilla sauce.

I tried to be discreet as I wandered around the exhibition, plucking up a macaroon here or a dollop of fluffy tiramisu there. Already back at the table, Carmen was agog at the bounty of sweet treasures that accompanied a cup of coffee: orange rind peeled like swirls of ribbon, a cloud of Kahlua-flavored whipped cream, a pile of shaved chocolate, cinnamon sticks, a fresh orchid.

"Can you imagine that there are restaurants that still do all these things?" asked Carmen. "I thought such attention to detail had gone out of style."

Not at this congenial club. After I paid our bill, the host handed me my receipt and gave Carmen a long-stemmed red rose. "I feel so special," she giggled.

But it wasn't a special occasion, I reminded her. At the Peppercorn Duck Club, even an icy Wednesday night is reason for celebration.