When the mammoth seafood buffet known as Momo closed a few years ago, I remember fearing that a banal franchise like Rite Aid would encroach on the 9,000 square-foot shell, which in earlier days operated as the G.I Joe Army Surplus Store. Momo’s stint lasted only a couple of years, unfortunately – a worrisome clue that left me suspecting the century-old building sits just a toe too far outside the Gaslamp bustle to rake in hungry herds.

Then, much to my delight, the latest tenant, Visions Restaurant and Bar, was born, swooping up the façade with video screens spread above its windowed storefront and soothing my dread of chain occupancy. The proprietors are a local couple who also own the popular Jimmy Love’s on Fifth Avenue. They transformed the vast blueprint into a multi-comfort emporium of food and spirits that features a main dining room with roomy upholstered booths, a separate sushi area of café proportions and private VIP lounges rigged with flat screens – all orbiting a large square marble bar that seats 75 people. Heavy curtains layered with white sheers combined with unpretentious lighting spares you from feeling as though you’ve entered some under-30s club.

Sadly, so does the lack of energy, at least on the night I visited with a dining comrade, who for months was eager to check out the scene at Visions. Perhaps it was the nippy temperatures befalling a Tuesday evening or the financial bee sting the holiday season makes on the budget that kept people away. But for the entire duration of our dinner, we were the lone patrons in the main dining room.

Another theory we couldn’t dismiss was the inconsistency of the food, which ranged from a sensational Gaslamp Roll constructed of fresh salmon, spicy crab, lemon, honey-miso and raspberry coulis to some lousy salads and problematic hot dishes from the main menu. With the exception of the sushi, constructed with a fine twist by Anthony Pascale (former executive chef at Ono Sushi), a portion of our dishes lacked, um, vision.

Beef Mushroom Bruschetta, for example, tasted only of powerful red wine sauce and crispy bread when we shoved all the ingredients into our mouths. It wasn’t until we separated the portabella and sirloin from their crowns that could we embrace the dish’s beefy essence. A slice of Tomato Mozzarella Terrine served slightly chilled garnered conflicting reactions.

“Too dense,” my companion uttered, referring to the compressed strands of spinach fettuccine noodles holding it together like bread binds stromboli. I actually enjoyed the compact texture that gave way to faint swirls of prosciutto, basil and what seemed like sun-dried tomatoes, although I had to concentrate hard to detect the homemade mozzarella inside.

Fire-roasted corn, crème fraiche and hefty chunks of claw meat comprised a bowl of crab bisque that was thicker than most recipes but warming and quite good. My companion’s spinach salad, however, was a vexatious jumble of severely overcooked, non-chewable pancetta and caramelized onions taking on a heap of greasy battered fried onions that a roadside diner might serve with wild abandon. The sweet grapefruit sections encircling the greens were the best part of the medley. My organic salad of mixed lettuces was overdressed in oily vinaigrette and pretty much flavorless until I hit upon an occasional roasted pine nut and halved strawberry.

Our entrées marked a welcome upturn to our meal. My companion’s Mixed Grille included two naked shrimp flavored simply by their grill marks, a flatiron steak sporting the girth of sirloin and set in a viscous red wine sauce (reduced a tad too long), plus a tender chicken breast in a lovely saffron beurre blanc sauce, which my friend discovered sang equally as well on the beef.

I opted for Mushroom Ravioli, but regretted moments before the dish arrived passing up the Beef Stroganoff, which I don’t see in restaurants too often. The alfredo sauce drowning the homemade pasta pillows sated my hankering for cream and presented a formidable competition with the heavy filling of ricotta, mozzarella and meaty mushrooms. I abandoned the meal halfway through merely because it was sinfully rich.

As expected in an empty dining room, our courses were well timed, although it never ceases to amaze me when a waitperson looks at an empty plate or cocktail glass sitting under your nose and asks, “Are you done with that?” The question shows a lack of confidence and intuition, as was the case with our friendly and accessible waitress.

We were met at the meal’s finish line with more disparity. An excellent homemade bread pudding was wet all the way through from a subtle rum sauce, while a flat disk of gummy cheesecake cried for some of that moisture and lacked the classic tang you expect from cream cheese and sour cream.

What would lure us back to Visions, we determined, is the sushi, the downtown-style martinis, an ambitious wine list featuring hundreds of labels and those inviting VIP suites that don’t require a bottle charge Sundays through Thursdays. On any day of the week, you can tote in your own CDs or DVDs, unplug from the restaurant’s music and broadcasts and create your own vision of a night on the town.