Roasted duck breast with duck cannoli, apricots and chocolate-peppercorn vinaigrette

Photograph: Jeff Gurwin

One if by Land, Two if by Sea has long billed itself as New York’s restaurant for lovers, and based on my inaugural meal there—a splurge when I was just out of college—it’s been a valid, if one-dimensional, claim. I can still remember every over-the-top detail: the flowers, the piano player, the views into a leafy garden. The only thing I don’t remember is the food.

One if by Land has tried to rectify that by bringing in the talented Craig Hopson, Terrance Brennan’s deputy at Picholine. He has revamped the bill of fare at this warhorse, even tinkering with the signature beef Wellington. But a funny thing happened on the way to relevance: Rather than benefiting from the fresh touch, the staid eatery has subsumed Hopson. His awkward menu is no more memorable than my first meal here.

The dining room, however, located in Aaron Burr’s old carriage house, has profited from a makeover. It’s spiffier, with cushy banquettes and stylish wooden floors by the bar. But time has otherwise stood still in the 15 years since I ate here. The treacly piano remains, the playlist frozen in time, and the tables over which countless have been wooed are still adorned with roses and single melting candle. I felt embarrassed for my 24-year-old self—romantic, yes, but as clichéd as a Hallmark card.

When it came to doctoring the menu, Hopson’s goal was logical enough: Make it lighter and more contemporary. There are now accents not only from France, but also from places like North Africa and Asia. A starter of a neutral grilled sepia with Thai basil and a cloying pineapple sauce, however, was about as light and contemporary as sweet-and-sour chicken. And a porcini napoleon fought a battle with itself. The acidic mushrooms, marinated escabeche-style, clashed terribly with the perfumed richness of shaved foie gras and summer truffle. My favorite appetizer—sautéed foie gras smartly paired with balsamic-anointed strawberries and shaved serrano ham—was the one most likely to have fit in on the old, stuffier menu.

I do respect Hopson for his willingness to shake things up. It would have been easy to leave intact the ever-popular beef Wellington. It may also have been a better move. In a departure from the old execution of foie gras and filet mignon baked in pastry, Hopson infuses the liver instead into a sabayon, making an already fussy dish even more precious. The beef itself was as bland as banquet steak, sadly appropriate given the dozens served each night.

As for his new entrées, Hopson’s more modern emphasis mostly translated into a lack of nuance. A deep-fried squab was tough when it should have been juicy. A John Dory, heavily sauced with an odd mustard-lemon-tomato chutney, while not unpleasant, didn’t quite jell. My favorite main course: pleasantly salty roasted duck breast.

Love couldn’t save the day when it came to dessert. That epitome of romantic sweets, the chocolate soufflé, was dense and dry. The dessert of beauty here: a poached peach orbited by basil ice cream.

Those trying to distract their dates from such subpar fare can take refuge in the bottle—the wine list is very reasonable—though I found that the too-good-to-be-true $30 specials were truly bad. But gazing around, I noticed that most diners, like my younger self, looked to be entirely oblivious to what they were eating or drinking. When love is blind, so, it seems, are palates.