It’s not every day that you hear a flute recital. And when you hear one, it might as well be first-class. The recital in Zankel Hall on Tuesday night was first-class.

The players were Emmanuel Pahud and Yefim Bronfman. Mr. Pahud – who is Swiss French – is probably the most ballyhooed flutist in the world now. You might consider him the heir to Jean-Pierre Rampal and Sir James Galway. He’s principal flutist of the Berlin Philharmonic, but they give him plenty of time for his global solo career. And he churns out recordings regularly, another stunning thing for a flutist.

Mr. Bronfman, of course, is one of the finest pianists we have. The flutist is lucky to team with such a player. But then, Mr. Bronfman seems to be enjoying this collaboration as well.

Their program on Tuesday night consisted of four sonatas. First was a staple of the flute repertoire: the Sonata in E minor, Op. 167, by Carl Reinecke, nicknamed “Undine.” (Reinecke wasn’t called that – his sonata is.) Reinecke was a 19th-century German, and his flute sonata is about his only composition to have survived. (That’s the thing about writing for repertoire-starved instrumentalists: They tend to be grateful.) Undine is the tragic water nymph we meet throughout music – in Dvorak’s opera “Rusalka,” for example.

Mr. Pahud is not the world’s most praised flutist for nothing. He has every asset: a brilliant technique, a wise musical head, pleasing sound. Zankel Hall can be murder on sound, exposed and exposing as it is. Mr. Pahud passed all tests. In the Reinecke – as throughout the night – he produced several colors on his instrument, all of them appropriate. And he put the lie to the notion of the flute as a prissy pipe. (Though it can be that, when it wants to be.)

As for Mr. Bronfman, Reinecke was never treated so royally. He brought to this score all of his considerable authority. His playing in the third movement was particularly notable – catching those zephyrs, or gentle undulations, mysterious lappings.

And, always, the two players meshed. They were never soloists going their own way, but true partners. I wish to stress that they left the final note of the final movement together. Why should this be so remarkable? Two professionals should, right? Yes, but if you spend time in concert halls, you know this is remarkable, indeed.

Following the Reinecke was a sonata of Brahms, that in F minor, Op. 120, No. 1. Brahms wrote this sonata – along with its companion, Op. 120, No. 2 – for clarinet, and he later transcribed it (and them) for violin and viola (separately). Flutists, understandably and rightly, poach. As Messrs. Pahud and Bronfman played Op. 120, No. 1, I missed the clarinet sound only once: in the last movement, when we get that wonderful, exciting three note signal. That signal sounded too high in my ear. But that is surely a matter of habituation, only.

Mr. Pahud knew just what he was doing in the Brahms. He employed a fairly wide tone – Brahmsian – and he played with a masculine beauty. He allowed no flabbiness, or wispiness, fatal to Brahms (or at least to this sonata).

And Mr. Bronfman is nearly ideal for this composer. When he plays Romantic music, he likes to temper it with Classicism. Brahms usually requires common sense – and Mr. Bronfman has that, in abundance.

In the slow movement of the sonata, Mr. Bronfman offered some exquisite shadings. This music seemed quasi-Impressionistic. In the last movement, he suffered a technical lapse, which was shocking. It was probably more shocking to him than it was to us. But it was minor.

And I must say that, at the end of the sonata, Mr. Pahud produced no little volume on his flute. That slim, gleaming little instrument can make a helluva racket in Zankel Hall.

After intermission, the two recitalists performed … the other Brahms sonata. This work, in E-flat major, is more autumnal than its predecessor. Messrs. Pahud and Bronfman provided the necessary lyricism, and also the necessary solidity.The final movement – Andante con moto – was striking for its balance, its equilibrium, its sense that everything was in order, undisturbable.

To end the program, Mr. Pahud brought out one of the glories of his instrument – Prokofiev’s Sonata in D major, Op. 94, yes, written expressly for the flute. The great violinist David Oistrakh asked his friend to do a transcription for him; Prokofiev obliged – but the work belongs to the flute, originally.

It is a happy, sunny, open affair; and it calls for clarity and precision, which Mr. Pahud could easily supply. He lent the first movement a little French insouciance – entirely appropriate. And his rapid repeated notes were exciting and impressive. (Mr. Bronfman gets less credit for the same notes – much easier on the piano!)

Prokofiev’s Scherzo was a sprightly delight, with the flutist unleashing his virtuosity. And the closing movement – Allegro con brio – was flavored with Prokofiev’s impudence, which we know so well.

The audience rose as one, calling the players back many times. Unlike most musicians, they were not quick to play an encore. They had to know that the audience really wanted it. Finally, they repeated the second movement – scherzo-like – of the Reinecke sonata. I was sort of hoping for, and guessing, a transcription of Prokofiev’s March from “Love for Three Oranges.” But the Reinecke served.

And we’d had as good a flute recital as you can ever hope to hear.