Provence

By EWAN McDONALD for Viva

Provence is a state of mind, wrote Ford Maddox Ford, who put rather too much bon into his vivant and was obliged to spend a good deal of time there. And for the past five years it has been possible to get into this state of mind by wandering upstairs to the airy, creamy dining room at the Ponsonby restaurant of the same name, where Laurent Brunacci offered thoroughly Gallic snails, brains, rabbit, pig's trotters and duck.

These temps are fairly much perdu. Over the past few months Brunacci has gone, replaced by (mon Dieu!) a Londoner, Ian Jones. Where once was dining downstairs, there's now the Rouge Bar. Gone too, the exposed brick, mirrors, timber and mementoes of French country life: the upstairs dining room is now red, blood red walls, the windows frosted. The music on this night was a Brazilian band, Delata; in more politically correct times they played only the Gipsy Kings or Piaf. Je regrette the loss of the old trademark, painted on the wall outside, red and yellow and reminiscent of a favourite pastis label, updated to a more elegant black logo.

However, as grumpy old Voltaire said, the more things change ... Ken Marshall and Shelley Head, the owners, and chef Jones have sensibly modified the menu rather than biffed out the old carte. While the name might have been Provence, the cuisine never stopped at Montelimar. It kept going north on the autoroute to Lyon and took a D road into the Burgundy countryside for dishes such as escargots, field mushrooms and fava beans sauteed in garlic butter; sometimes it hopped on a train to the South-west for cassoulet.

Now it can cross from the French to the Italian Riviera for a ravioli of sauteed chicken livers with a crayfish marscapone sauce, basil and parmesan or perhaps seared prawns and scallops tossed with linguine and a champagne-citrus sauce. Which is where Ann came in, and her considered, technically precise opinion of this entree was "damn fine". Several days later I'm still regretting that I didn't take up Messrs Jones and Marshall, who was tending bar downstairs and waiting on the three tables upstairs, on their offer of apple and brie soup. Doesn't that just sound so delicious? Not that I minded as I relieved the kitchen of a gutsy risotto.

The dishes aren't presented in a traditional manner, though. Duck leg confit and sauternes roasting juices sounds straight out of M. Escoffier's textbook - until it's teamed with green peppercorns and caramelised peach (it was apricot), Puy lentils and fava beans. Venison is pan-seared in garlic butter and bathed in a mustard-port veloute and roasted capsicum orzo.

Jones' desserts are bistro classics: creme brulee, chocolate parfait with toasted almonds and boysenberries, tarte tatin, white chocolate praline mousse, cheeses and a crepe stuffed with marscapone, topped with orange slivers drenched in Grand Marnier. Of course, I'm only reporting here. Yeah, right.

There are some quibbles with Provence, though they don't relate to the exceptionally good food. The kitchen staff so obviously pour time and effort and emotion into the meals: if there were more diners here, there'd be a maitre d' on the floor, instead of one man tending bar on one level and taking orders or waiting tables on the next. Before the revamp Provence did fluctuate in quality, and maybe the word got around. And that burgundy - perhaps pinot noir - dining room, with the windows frosted, is not too kind on even the mildest claustrophobic.

Still, as another bon vivant, Elizabeth David, said: "Provence is a country to which I am always returning, next week, next year, any day now, as soon as I can get on a train." Same goes for the restaurant. Especially if that soup is still on.

Open: 7 nights from 6pm

Owner: Ken Marshall

Chef: Debbie Klette

Food: Modern French

Wine: French reds and whites that match the food, interesting locals and Australians; most under $40

Vegetarian: Non

Smoking: Defense de fumer

Bottom line: Where once was a creamy, airy dining room is now a deep-red salon; where once was a French chef is now a Londoner; where once was Piaf are now Brazilian beats. But the food remains and retains the glory of France, even though it's dressed up in modern style.

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