Gidon Kremer served an interesting, well-balanced, appetizing meal to his audience at Carnegie Hall on Monday night. The Latvian violinist appeared with his Kremerata Baltica, a chamber orchestra composed of young professionals from Mr. Kremer’s home region. How would you like to have your own, branded chamber orchestra? Something to aspire to.

The group, sans Mr. Kremer, started with Beethoven’s “Grosse Fuge,” that ingenious and colossal thing. They played with vigor, and with a nice, rather dark sound. They did not play with perfect unity, however: The music threatened to derail (without quite tipping over). And greater clarity would have helped: Not all voices came out. Furthermore, Beethoven’s lovely, ethereal parts should have been … well, more lovely and ethereal.

But the Kremerata Baltica was sensitive to the drama of the “Grosse Fuge,” and gave a respectable account.

Then Mr. Kremer stepped onto the stage for the Schumann Cello Concerto. What? He was playing the violin transcription of this work, made during Schumann’s lifetime by a transcriber unknown. Schumann gave violinists a concerto all their own, but that is seldom played.

It was odd, yet not displeasing, to hear Schumann’s Cello Concerto in the higher register. Unfortunately, Mr. Kremer did not show himself to best effect. His sound was poor, and at times downright ugly. It was this way, too, when Mr. Kremer appeared in Carnegie Hall for the three Brahms violin-and-piano sonatas with Krystian Zimerman. That was in November. And, on Monday night, the sound was lacking in both quality and quantity — Mr. Kremer was muted.

Which reminds me of what is reputed to be Woody Allen’s favorite joke: Two women come out of a restaurant, and one says to the other, “The food has gotten so bad there.” And the other says, “Yeah, and such small portions.”

Schumann’s concerto could have used much more warmth and bloom, particularly in the slow movement, where we need at least a dollop of Romanticism. Mr. Kremer was offering a Spartan diet. He is a smart violinist, of course — a smart musician — and he did some smart playing. But too much of the concerto was indifferent and mechanical. In the last movement, Mr. Kremer seemed to be punching a clock.

After intermission, we heard a rare work by Erich Wolfgang Korngold — rare because it is almost never played. This is the Symphonic Serenade in B flat, Op. 39, composed in 1947–48. One indication of its rarity is that the work had not been performed in Carnegie Hall until Monday night.

And it is a splendid work, a fine companion to string serenades such as those by Dvorÿák, Elgar, and Tchaikovsky. And the Kremerata Baltica played it admirably: with poise and balance.

In the first movement, they were playful, mischievous, and suave. They could have summoned a touch more vitality, however. Indeed, a conductor might have been of benefit. These riderless horses — these conductorless chamber orchestras — are an iffy proposition.

Korngold’s second movement is a fleet pizzicato study, and the group traversed it with decent accuracy. The third movement is marked “Lento religioso.” And it is a beautiful, quasi-Brahmsian thing — or better, a beautiful, quasi-Mahlerian thing. In it, the Kremerata Baltica achieved something close to transcendence. And the Finale was duly fast and stirring.

Finishing the program was a work for violin and small orchestra depicting the four seasons. Vivaldi, right? No, Piazzolla — Astor Piazzolla, the Argentinian tango master (1921–1992). This was “The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires,” composed in the late 1960s. What a wonderful piece, played wonderfully by Gidon Kremer and his group.

Mr. Kremer grasps the inventiveness and the spirit of Piazzolla, and is entirely sympathetic. The violinist was sly, jazzy, and fun. He shimmied, shuddered, and shook — in his playing, I mean. But at one point, he tapped his toe, then stomped his heel (gently, unobtrusively). This may not have been the tango, but it was a dance, of some sort.

Piazzolla, perhaps inevitably, quotes Vivaldi. And when this happened, the man sitting next to me chuckled. I think Piazzolla would have liked that.

I should also say that the principal cello is at times a co-soloist in this work — and the Kremerata Baltica’s was notably stylish and sure.

What did Wagner call Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7? “The apotheosis of the dance.” As far as I’m concerned, Piazzolla’s “Four Seasons of Buenos Aires” might be dubbed the apotheosis of the tango. But then, that could be said of virtually his entire oeuvre.

It has been a good season for Piazzolla in New York: In February, at Merkin Hall, the brilliant young clarinetist Jose Franch-Ballester went to town on him. And a famously canny and musical violinist went to town on him in Carnegie Hall two nights ago. You could tango out satisfied.