PM24

FRANCE'S loss was Melbourne's gain when Philippe Mouchel arrived in 1991 as Paul Bocuse's man on the ground. The restaurant eventually folded, as restaurants in shopping centres tend to do, but Mouchel stayed on and despite dalliances with Sydney and Tokyo, the fidelity of the past six years at Crown has made him as much a part of the city's framework as Robert Hoddle's grid system, from which his new restaurant takes its name.

PM24 (that's 24 Russell Street) is the product of an unlikely alliance with George Calombaris and his Press Club mates, a protean super-brand that's expanding to include other chefs in its circle of trust. The big question was whether the Princes of Greece would play an obvious hand, maybe pioneering a new Franco-Greco cuisine or, at the very least, making the new recruit put its cookbooks on display. The latter aside, the answer is no. PM24 is a fairly straightforward update of The Brasserie rather than a break with history.

It's timely, too — a trade-up to better digs enjoying views across the road to the Forum from what used to be a Japanese restaurant.

The decor is similarly plain, if you overlook the crimson banquettes hugging the wall, but it's a broad, expansive space that bases its appeal less on designers and concepts and more on the vaulting ceilings and sheer depth of the place. The linen is gone, the atmosphere rowdier. It's the location Mouchel deserves after the beige blandness of his Crown address.

The new restaurant has embraced the open kitchen, which gives diners the opportunity to see the chef at work. Since PM24 opened in early December, the renowned perfectionist has been looking over each plate as it leaves the pass — an occasionally messy space, where squeezy bottles intrude on romantic illusions of French cookery. But that's just a quibble because the most important piece of equipment in the house is the rotisserie. It's bespoke, Ferrari-red and a thing of beauty for anyone who enjoys the fundamentals of meat cookery: protein hanging from metal hooks, the reaction of fat and flame.

With good produce, you can't go past the rotisserie treatment and the organic roast chicken ($34) is damn fine. The pieces of bird are perfection, served with a jumble of rudely charred vegetables that have soaked up the cooking juices so it's all one big chickeny love-in. Mon dieu.

Elsewhere, there are dishes that have been airlifted from The Brasserie: the snails ($19/$35) with tomato fondue and parsley butter, lighter on the garlic than you'd expect; the Provencale-style zucchini flowers ($18.50/$35) stuffed with minced artichoke and a bunch of complementary things, then fried; a marvellously nuanced bouillabaisse fumet — not keeping to the textbook definition but certainly keeping the spirit alive with its deep and rich crustacean flavour, populated with shellfish and octopus and topped with a fine piece of rockling and silken saffron rouille ($37.50).

You could call it French food that's not fancy. It might not be terribly ambitious but that hasn't been the point of Mouchel's cooking since he went solo. Beautiful and packed with flavour, it's a reminder of why Frenchiness is next to Godliness. It's accessible, not complex or heavy — bistro food dressed in its Sunday best.

The most restaurant-driven it gets is a scallop carpaccio ($19.50) with salty strips of bottarga and the citrus crunch of pink peppercorns, although the dish is sabotaged by an enthusiastic hand on the yuzu mayonnaise. But most of the menu has a rustic heart.

There's a "country" pate ($19.50) — more a terrine, with its rough-hewn texture — with pork and seasonings and an indecent amount of foie gras that plays off against toasted sourdough and a not-too-sweet onion jam. The veal kidneys are cooked to pink-in-the-middle perfection in a classic Madeira sauce ($30). A more modern duck confit salad ($21.50) is jazzed up with crisp duck skin and a crumbed egg — the ideal lunch for one. And there's a big puck of blue swimmer crab cake, heavy on the headline ingredient, with sweet heirloom tomatoes and anchovy dressing. The dish brings the 1990s to mind, although $25 isn't exactly a 1990s price.

For mains, it would be a shame to miss the rotisserie but I couldn't get as enthusiastic about the lamb rack ($40), which had a tasty enough layer of breadcrumbs, rosemary and mustard attenuated to the sweet pink meat but lacked the expected char and texture. I missed the fat.

The suckling pig ($36) also loses something being turned into croquettes — after all, why do we love suckling pig so? But the "jus de porc" has the treacly consistency and heady taste of the stuff found on the bottom of the cooking pan, which is a very good thing.

The service is also good, although the couple next to us, who sat among dirty plates while waiters faffed around our water glasses, might offer a different opinion. The wine list is fanciable — thoughtfully structured, very much focused on French and Australian quality drops, with a touch of premium New Zealand thrown in.

For dessert, it's back to the classics. The crepe is a big square dusted in icing sugar with slices of peach and saffron cream inside light golden layers. Our neighbours' creme brulee was set alight at the table, prompting flashbacks to the '80s, and I have it on good authority that the Paris-Brest is sensational. Next time.

Unlike other big city openings in the past 12 months, PM24 isn't cool and hasn't been besieged by the skinny-jeans set. Its appeal exists largely outside fashion — the shock of the old rather than the thrill of the new. Let that be your guide but, for me, food like this never goes out of style.