What makes tango music so seductive is the way it sweeps over you, like a wave.

Hacienda de Argentina, an elegant South American steakhouse on the upper East Side, has the same effect.

The aura of Argentina is so complete (dark woods, dripping table candelabras, tawny cowhides, chairs carved like chess pawns), you'll wonder if your cabbie, so busy on the phone, made a wrong turn to Buenos Aires. The family pictures on the wall and the majestic communal table anchoring the room suggest you've landed in some dignitary's hacienda.

If there's a "host" gene, the French woman who greets you at the door has it in spades. Rarely have I felt so genuinely welcomed in a dining room.

She'll suggest a lemonada, the refreshing house cocktail that marries mojito and caipirinha with a toast of Champagne. Accept, by all means.

Meat grilled a la parilla is king here. Per tradition, grilling is low and slow, so order smaller dishes while you wait.

I had given up on empanadas, convinced the concept of these leaden slippers was inherently flawed. But Hacienda's panoply of empanadas (five fillings, from provolone and sausage to sautéed mushrooms) showed me the light. A sampler plate rides in on a skiff that looks fashioned from bark. Each is distinctly toothsome, but the densely packed spinach and Reggiano outstrips the rest.

If you're thinking links, the grilled sausage sampler lets you pit the paprika spice of a Spanish chorizo against the smokiness of the salchicha or the sweetness of the national chorizo.

Among the salads, all sprinkled with spry rock salt, try the grape tomatoes partnered with cucumbers, leached of their water for a charismatic crunch.

If your taste buds lean toward gaucho bravura, try the pork-blood sausage. So often granular, here the filling is velvety smooth and chocolaty in its swarthy sweetness. Playful yellow-green pear tomatoes must have jumped right off the vine.

Humbly grilled and oh-so-tender sweetbreads make for a sweetheart of a starter.

Since the importation of Argentine meat is currently banned, Hacienda serves grass-fed, natural, Australian beef in its stead, along with USDA prime. Both come in a shell steak or filet mignon cut. You pick the size (from a "ladies'" 10-ounce lomo to a 16-ounce bife befitting the beefiest Texan).

The natural beef may be slightly tougher (you'll be grateful for that pampas-clearing scythe in your hand), but it pays back in a flavor so earthy you can smell the warm breezes quivering through the grass. The American beef is more tender, to be sure, but despite its sexy marbling, fades to bland by comparison. Both come with a tangy chimichurri sauce that, at times, was just a tad lean.

If you don't eat red meat, you might feel like a wallflower. The grilled whole sea bass will change that - especially if you douse it with chimichurri.

All the entrees are served solo on gigantic white plates, making for a dramatic presentation. (Against this stark-white backdrop, the smoky, charred short rib looks like a railroad tie.)

Among side dishes, the papas fritas scented with lemon juice were more alluring than the garlic fritas. Neither was very crisp.

Order the house gnocchi instead, so petite, light and fluffy an Italian might be thrown. They are smothered in basil and fresh grape tomatoes bursting out of their thin skins, as though trampled on a ballroom floor. More rock salt, por favor.

Chocolate lovers will find happiness in a dark chocolate flan or a molten torta de chocolate. More typical are the alfajores, sugar cookies layered with dulce de leche and dipped in chocolate, and the much more satisfying panqueque, a delicate crepe oozing with dulce de leche and sautéed bananas.

Wash it all down with some Fernet-Branca, a bark-infused digestif known for its stomach-settling qualities. Some at our table thought it tasted like Bactine.

My biggest complaint about this cozy hacienda is the music, which ricochets from romantic Cuban guitar to the Red Hot Chili Peppers to Barry White.

Hacienda de Argentina celebrates the food and culture of a people who have music in their blood. I'm not crying for a guitar-strumming payador - just a soundtrack that reflects the otherwise pitch-perfect ambience.