Almost from the day it opened in Pacific Heights six years ago, Quince was harder to crash than a White House gala. The dining room was tiny, and reservations were hard to come by. Arriving unannounced, even the Salahis would not have found a seat.

Patrons turned away by Lindsay Tusk, who worked up front while her husband, Michael, ran the kitchen, might have drowned their sorrows at the bar, except there was none. With few places to sit and nowhere to linger, Quince began to squirm in its crown-molding confines—a restaurant too small for its own success.

Even so, when the Tusks announced their plans last February to relocate to a ballroom-size encampment in Jackson Square, it sounded like curious timing for such a brash move. Expansion seemed perilous, even for a restaurant with a following among some of the city’s best-insulated wealth. Regardless, renovations hurtled forward. After fewer delays than the new Bay Bridge has endured, the city’s other major project was soon complete.

Meet the new Quince, very different from the old Quince. Wine man David Lynch has arrived from New York to curate a blowout collection of some 850 labels, tilted heavily toward northern Italy, while cocktail consultants Scott Baird (of 15 Romolo) and Josh Harris have brought refined mixology to the bar. Though landing a reservation remains a challenge, you can now drop by for dinner in the lounge, which runs alongside a dining room that’s dapper enough to stand up to Willie Brown.  

On a recent evening, the ex-mayor was there, commanding a four-top in a restaurant of such elegance that it looked like a set piece staged around him. The main dining area is lit by a chandelier and softened around the edges by lush gray settees. It looks out through broad, framed openings to views of the bar; large, graceful artwork; and a rear brick wall that lends an element of European romance.

Michael Tusk enjoys a reputation for tempering rusticity with high technique. Over time, though, his approach has drifted farther from the Italian hill towns and closer to the fine kitchens of France. Homey dishes from the restaurant’s early days, such as milk-braised pork loin, have moved over to make room for more ornate presentations, like sliced duck breast spread in a pink fan over cabbage, then served with sculpted apples and roasted hazelnuts. Where once Tusk offered skate wing dressed skimpily in balsamic reduction, he now adorns striped bass with cauliflower flan, a scattering of sea beans, pine nuts, and currants. There’s a lot going on in this dish, so you almost don’t notice the timid curry that underlies the whole shebang.

The chef’s shifting aesthetic, already apparent at his old Octavia Street location, appears in a wider-ranging format at the new Quince. There are now two tasting menus, as well as à la carte options that did not exist before. These choices speak to an effort to accommodate all comers—diners eager for black-tie indulgence, others with more modest appetites and budgets—and the kitchen handles the task with varied success.

On my visits, the starters sparkled. Pumpkin-and-chestnut soup, its two main elements—one a wintry brown, the other an autumnal orange—separated yin-and-yang-like in the bowl, achieved a perfect earthy balance. Thin coins of octopus made another dexterous dish. They came arranged like tilework on a crunchy bed of farro (a fine textural pairing), their muted colors brightened with purple pomegranate and their flavors enlivened by citron and olive oil.

Much has been made of Tusk’s mastery of pasta. A virtuoso of the genre, he’s equally at ease with both delicate and hearty styles. A ricotta raviolo, bathed in brown butter and parmesan, contained a farm egg that spilled its yolk across the pasta; pappardelle was wrapped in ribbons around the sweet gift of black kale and braised suckling pig; tortelloni were plump purses filled with castelmagno cheese, open to candied walnuts and a drizzling of floral honey.

But Quince backs down with its entrées. A trio of lamb (leg, loin, and rack) with borlotti beans and escarole called to mind the early days of the restaurant in its robust-sounding simplicity, but the meat never reached much depth. That ornamented striped bass, with its pine nut–currant garnish, looked pretty on the plate but performed dully on the palate. The same could be said of John Dory with purées of wild nettles and porcini mushrooms. A smoky cipollini-and-speck crema dominated the dish, leaving the impression that some flavor had been forgotten amid the fuss.

The restaurant steers back on track with its desserts, overseen by William Werner, whose winning sweets range from the free-spirited to the restrained. Pistachio semifreddo with citron and honey has a film star’s cool containment, while a quince crème chiboust—a dense soufflé—maintains a royal bearing, a vanilla gelato crown at its side and a candied strip of quince rolled out like a red carpet at its feet.

It should come as no surprise that the service is superb and all-seeing, as befits a place whose owners have attempted to pull out all the stops. The result is a highly ambitious restaurant, nearly doubled in size and quintupled in its effort to be all things to everyone. It is, by any measure, an impressive effort. Whether it’s worthy of the buildup—or the buildout—is another question, and I’d say “not quite” to anyone who asked.

Quince: 470 Pacific Ave. (bet. Montgomery and Sansome Sts., S.F., 415-775-8500, dinner only, reservations recommended, valet parking, wheelchair accessible, $$$$