Oceana’s 3

FEASTING on luscious, “simply prepared” olive oil-poached halibut that’s far from simple to do right, you worry: Will the dining millions “get” the new Oceana, tide-swept from its intimate townhouse setting to a steakhouse-like sprawl amid giant office buildings?

Betcha wild bass they do, judging by the packed dining room. This is the new face of “fine” dining — a multipurpose pigout scene for serious fish lovers, corporate overeaters, tourists and showgoers. Take down the fish prints, and it could be any kind of restaurant. Only not just any restaurant could have dishes as transporting as Oceana’s pristine seafood, now offered in greater variety and with more ways to order than ever before.

At its old digs, Oceana felt more like a fancy French boite of yore than a modern-American seafood parlor. It was a special-occasion “destination” — but a destination that people sought out on fewer occasions than they once did.

Great reviews didn’t help. The setting and formal service screamed “old.” Today’s diners apparently care more about not showing their age than about how aged their beef, cheese or balsamic vinegar might be.

I miss the ship murals and yacht-like intimacy. But the new Oceana is a lot busier than the old one was, and more people might be enjoying chef Ben Pollinger’s globally tinted dishes in a week than they once did in a month.

Yes, it can take time to warm up to 280 seats spread over 12,000 square feet. Cream walls run for half a block — from lounge to raw bar stacked with giant fish; past a wine-walled, private room oddly in the middle of everything; thence to the dining room with Deco-ish columns, banquettes and walnut trim under tiered chandeliers; and to more private rooms beyond.

Tall vases with white hydrangeas almost break up the monotony. A giant lobster tank seems to wink at struggling City Lobster across the street.

The a la carte menu strives to be all things to all big spenders, with raw bar items, “composed” dishes, whole fish, seafood “simply prepared,” plus meat choices. (Starters average $18, mains $26 to $36). As at a million places, there are whiffs of Asia, Spain and Italy. The unity lies in the judicious application of accents to make familiar cuts seem new — and Pollinger’s restraint yields revelatory results.

In early September, seafood-stuffed calamari lacked flavor differentiation and seemed a work in progress. But now it’s a knockout, the “sausage” of fish, olives, garlic and basil deftly tucked into fat calamari like a ship in a bottle.

Thai-style red snapper is a clinic in measured exoticism. Notes of lemongrass, ginger, kaffir lime, cilantro and jicama sparkle without overwhelming the fish. Halibut saltimbocca playfully references Italian red-sauce cooking without a drop of red sauce. The wafer-thin prosciutto wrap, a breeze of sage in eggplant puree on which the fish seems to float, and cherry tomato confit and ricotta make the point.

The menu understates some dishes’ intricacy. “Snapper ceviche” is a mosaic round with a tongue-tickling texture; chilies gently spark citric-marinated fish, flame-blistered corn, hearts of palm, chives and a kiss of cilantro.

On the other hand, buttery, “simply prepared” cuts truly are. Coconut glaze on mahi mahi is endearingly subtle thanks to a balance between sweet coconut milk and the acidity of green mango. Selections come with a choice of sauces you need apply only sparingly. Romesco made with piquillo peppers, almonds and hazelnuts harmonized well with striped bass.

With so much that’s right, it’s disappointing to note what’s wrong. Waiters come at you two at once when you don’t need them, but vanish when you do. Clunky, thick-cut scallop sashimi “just lay there,” my friend accurately stated.

Execution sometimes stumbles, like lukewarm garganelli and fish that’s overcooked only rarely — but never should be.

Jansen Chan’s desserts read as if precious, but are as accessible as they are fun — like mascarpone panna cotta topped with granita of darling little Concord grapes. Once you give in to their sweet solace, you might forget old Oceana for good.

scuozzo@nypost.com