This catalog will undoubtedly serve as a useful work of reference for many years to come, but it would require some sort of shopping cart to be used as a guide to the exhibition itself. And speaking of shopping- which has now been expanded into a mandatory service in our art museums-the National Gallery has seen fit to open a special Art Nouveau shop as an appendage to the current show. In this emporium you can acquire, among much else, a reproduction of a William Morris tapestry called Tree of Life for $495. Never before has Andy Warhol's comparison of the art museum and the department store been more vividly illustrated. For more modest budgets, there are Charles Rennie Mackintosh napkin rings at $38 and a Louis Sullivan black velvet scarf for $48.

Decorative overkill, of a kind that makes a fetish of curvilinear ornament, swirling curlicues and a vast inventory of forms that wriggle, wiggle and writhe, is the distinguishing feature of Art Nouveau design, and this mammoth exhibition responds to Art Nouveau's decorative excesses with a massive application of museum-installation overkill. No opportunity to add further layers of mindless artifice and specious glamour to the already-overwrought preciosities of Art Nouveau design is resisted in the installation of the exhibition, which, well in advance of the approach to its final rooms, leaves one longing for a breath of fresh air or a strong drink, or some other escape from its smarmy, relentless aestheticism.

According to Paul Greenhalgh, the curator of the exhibition, "Art Nouveau began in the ateliers, workshops and galleries of the art world, but quickly moved out beyond these to become a commonplace … on all levels of fin de siècle culture. In the first decade of the new century it was everywhere. It was simultaneously vulgar and elite, loved and hated. It could be found proudly decorating new and noble museum buildings, State monuments and official architecture, as well as giving garrulous form to biscuit tins, bill-posters, menu cards and children's toys. It inspired moral manifestos dedicated to the future good of society, while providing the imagery of erotic theater and pulp pornography. It was hailed as a visual Esperanto by internationalists, and claimed as their own by Gauls, Slavs, Latins, Celts and Teutons." America made a significant contribution, too, but the creepiest examples tend to be European.

Art Nouveau was not so much an art movement, then, as it was a cultural fashion-a distinctly bourgeois fashion that was created to satisfy a voracious appetite for conspicuous consumption, erotic fantasy and an entire repertory of bogus mystifications. Its principal places of worship were indeed the department store and the salons of interior decorators, which specialized in turning the hard-core realities of everyday life into the spiritual equivalent of a perpetual masked ball. Everything from consumer goods to nature itself had to be given the look of something ultramundane; everything had to be euphemized into seeming to be something it wasn't.

It is for all of these reasons that this particular Art Nouveau exhibition has more the look and feel of a visit to an anthropological museum than of a show of works of art. There are, of course, many works of art to be seen amid the clutter of housewares, posters, jewelry, chairs and tables beyond number, but in this exhibition even a painting by Gauguin or Whistler has the look of an alien presence, at best a footnote to all the posters and the preposterous furniture. In the end, we are left with an impression of a prosperous but anxious bourgeois society intent upon deceiving itself about both art and life.

Such projects of fantasy and self-deception are inevitably self-destructive, and the Art Nouveau fashion was no exception. It crashed almost as suddenly as it had emerged. Even before the outbreak of the First World War, its heyday had passed. The Austrian architect Adolf Loos sounded its death knell in 1908 with his polemic, Ornament and Crime , which equated the elimination of ornament with the advance of civilization to higher realms of achievement. That, of course, led to the countervailing excesses of the Bauhaus after the war-but that is another story.

There is, I suppose, a certain appropriateness to be found in the mounting of the mother of all Art Nouveau exhibitions in a period like our own, which is also an era of anxious prosperity, runaway consumption and a long menu of mystifications about art and life. It may be that, in this respect, there is an admonitory message to be discerned in Art Nouveau, 1890-1914 ; but whether or not you care about such things, the show itself, in all its foolish splendor, remains on view at the National Gallery in Washington through Jan. 28.

v

The décor of this corner restaurant is nothing if not dramatic. The backlit bar has dark wooden shelves excavated from an old library in Maine, eggplant mohair banquettes and old leather-seated chairs with slatted backs acquired from the Pentagon as if they were Viking artifacts. The dining room is decorated with thick cement columns, stained glass, wrought-iron window frames and bulbous metal ceiling fans that look like propellers designed by Rube Goldberg.

"They are probably taken from some old tango parlor in Argentina," said my friend. "American restaurant designers are like the British with the Elgin marbles. They plunder abroad and bring everything over here. There are probably more authentic French bistros in New York now than in Paris."

The walls of Vandam's dining room, which was designed by Jeffrey Cayle, are hung with photographs of South American scenes, including some evocative soft-focus, black-and-white pictures of old buildings that could be in Havana or Buenos Aires. Potted palms add a debonair note. Despite the fact that it is large and spacious, with high ceilings and an open kitchen, the dining room has a feeling of intimacy.

When we left to go to our table, my friend gave the waitress at the bar $20 without bothering to check the bill. When she failed to return with the change, he asked our waiter to see what had happened. A few minutes later, the waitress appeared, looking surprised–and a little miffed. "Here's your change," she said. "Eighteen cents."

"Twenty bucks for a whisky and a glass of wine! I guess I must be really out of touch," my friend said, apologizing and pulling out his wallet for a tip.

The last time we were here was in the early 80's when it was J.S. Vandam, a popular bistro where we often ended up pushing back the tables and dancing after dinner, and where the cocktails were certainly not eight or nine bucks apiece. But one of the owners died, and it became the Falls and then Buddha Bar. Now Buddha Bar partner Frederick Lesort has reopened it as a restaurant again, with photographer's rep and ex-model Ray Brown and Allison Sarofim, who developed the French-Latin menu with Argentine chef Fernando Trocca.

At the next table, three muscular guys with short haircuts and open-necked shirts were having an argument. "It says Argentinian beef on the menu," said one of them. "It's not legal."

"Yes it is. You couldn't get it for a long time," said one of the others, "but now you can. It comes with chimichurri."

"Fried pork rind!"

"No, that's chicharones."

"In Argentina, chimichurri is used like ketchup."

Actually, as I tasted later, chimichurri is a spicy sauce made with herbs, onions and olive oil. It was delicious on the char-grilled rib eye, a juicy, perfectly cooked piece of meat with good flavor that was served with excellent fries.

The three men, I realized after a while, were chefs, and they were checking out the interesting South American food produced by Mr. Trocca, who had one of the top restaurants in Buenos Aires before moving to New York to open Vandam. His cooking is elegant, with unexpected combinations of textures and tastes and unusual ingredients. It is also firmly based in classic French tradition. To go with this food, the wine list, which the chefs were perusing intently, offers an interesting selection of lesser-known Spanish and South American wines. Fascinating old postcards of Spanish bullfights decorate the covers of the menu and wine list–which is a little confusing, since in this setting gauchos would make more sense than matadors.

For starters, there was foie gras dusted with yucca, which does not sound like a dish you'd want to try more than once, but it was marvelous. A delicate creamy slice was served on caramelized mango and topped with a dark, rich balsamic vinegar sauce, sprinkled around the plate, as in an artwork by Jean Tinguely. A napoleon made with the lightest of pastry was filled with a creamy brandade of cod scented with lemon and sage. I also liked the airy polenta soufflé topped with a ragout of wild mushrooms.

Mr. Trocca also makes a refreshing ceviche of Diver scallops seasoned with cilantro and lime, mixed with avocado. As a special one evening, there was a brochette of lightly charred shrimp with a piquant corn salsa. You can also start with a trio of small dishes from the tapas menu, which included on this occasion Chilean oysters, lightly spiced crab cakes and a tuna tartare which was marred by slightly muddied spices.

His use of Latin ingredients in classic entrees is subtle and doesn't draw attention to itself the way it does in some so-called fusion cooking. The quinoa (a tiny, bead-shaped, ivory-colored grain) and tamarind sauce were perfect foils for meaty, rare duck breast. Herb-crusted rack of lamb went perfectly with a gratin of South American root vegetables. Chilean sea bass was cooked en papillote with plantain leaves and a light coconut broth. Red snapper–pan-fried so that it was crispy–was garnished with a tropical slaw made with mango and jicama.

Desserts included a passion fruit napoleon that tasted as though it had been made just minutes before, molten Venezuelan chocolate cake with cinnamon ice cream and an espresso tart with crème anglaise. But my eyes lit up when I saw there was also dulce de leche flan! I used to love that dark caramel that is sold in various forms all over Latin America. I used to make it at home by boiling an unopened can of condensed milk for a couple of hours. When you open it (not, as I discovered to the detriment of the kitchen ceiling on one occasion, before it has cooled down), you have a rich caramel that you can't stop eating by the spoonful. Our young waiter beamed when I exclaimed about it.

"Where are you from?" I asked him, thinking this must have been one of the treats of his childhood.

"France."

Across the way, an Argentine with slicked-back hair and tiny glasses, in the company of three blond women, was tucking into the dulce de leche flan. How nice it would be, I thought, if we could now push back the tables and dance the tango.

Vandam

* *

150 Varick Street, at Vandam Street

352-9090

Dress: Casual

Noise level: Fine

Wine list: Interesting Spanish and South American wines

Credit cards: All major

Price range: Main courses $19 to $26

Tapas menu: Monday to Saturday 5 P.M. to 2 A.M.

Dinner: Monday to Saturday 6 P.M. to midnight

* Good

* * Very Good

* * * Excellent

* * * * Outstanding

No Star: Poor