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A few weeks ago, when asked to write about what makes Melbourne’s dining scene so wonderful, my main argument hinged on one key element: a sense of place. I wish, for the sake of that article, that I’d had the chance to eat at Kafeneion before I began writing, if for no other reason than it is a perfect example of that ineffable quality to which I was referring. This restaurant is so very of its place, so very Melbourne, it makes me swoon.

What makes it so true to this city? The cliches are as spot-on as the more nuanced reasons. On these brisk winter nights, everyone is wearing black, everyone is drinking wine, everyone has that charming louche modishness that has defined our sense of style for decades.

The service is almost brusque, but in a loving way, if that makes sense: no-nonsense, professional without being uptight – we all know why we’re here, let’s get your order in and get you fed. It’s a style I’ve long associated with Melbourne, a variation on European service with less sneer, like you’re a member of the family who can withstand a little acerbic wit with your dirty martini.

It feels as though the restaurant has been in this space for decades, although only recently it was Martinis with Mancini, a bar operated by restaurateur Con Christopoulos – who, along with business partner Stavros Konis – is also responsible for Kafeneion. Some of this worn-in quality seems to be deliberate; the menus appear to have been pre-aged, their sparse mid-century graphics purposefully smudged, like a pair of pre-ripped jeans.

These are not dishes meant for Instagram. They are made to fill you up and make you feel loved.

The food? It’s simple. Straightforward. And Greek. Or, should I say, Greek-Australian? Because, while I’m sure almost everything on this menu can be found in Greece, it gets its sense of purpose from the cooking of generations of Greek families that have made Melbourne their home over the past 100 years.

This is especially true of the slow-cooked dishes that make up the bulk of the mains, offered in whole or half portions, food that could have come off a Greek grandma’s stove (and that, unless you have a Greek grandma, you’d be unlikely to find anywhere else).

Peas ($17/$27) are cooked down with artichokes, lemon and dill. Braised pork ($22/$36) is fall-apart tender, stewed with potatoes and lemon and celery leaves.

I’m going to guess some people won’t get it. This is a restaurant meal? Some dun-coloured stew on a plate? If that sounds disappointing to you, there are other places to take your business. These are not dishes meant for Instagram. They are made to fill you up and make you feel loved.

More Instagram-worthy? The cured bonito ($22), fanned across the plate in satisfying slabs, firm and sweet and wholly reliant on the excellent quality of the fish.

I wish sweetbreads were used more widely in Australia, but whether you’re an old pro or a newbie, the version here ($18) is a delight; fried perfectly – crisp on the outside, creamy in the middle – and served with lemon for squeezing.

When we asked about the whole fish of the day (market price), we braced for another snapper. (Not that there’s anything wrong with snapper!) But I was thrilled to hear instead that we’d be getting a whole mackerel ($38), and what a mackerel it was – so fresh, the oily flesh sang with sweetness, an absolute paragon of the form.

In a time in which it’s far too easy to spend a fortune on dinner without trying very hard, I was struck by the relative value of Kafeneion. One night we had cocktails and starters and three (small) mains, desserts (baklava for $14; sesame and honey ice-cream for $12, both so good), a bottle of wine and after-dinner drinks, and the bill was just over $230. The meal took hours; it felt celebratory. Just two nights earlier, I’d spent $300 on a 45-minute onslaught of small plates and a few drinks that weren’t very special.

Much of the food at Kafeneion is downright home-style, and I assume the reliance on stews and the rejection of any kind of plating pretension allows prices to stay reasonable. But that, in turn, allows the customer to splurge on other things: that second dessert; that nicer bottle of wine.

Plans are evolving; the current iteration is being billed as a winter pop-up, and Christopoulos claims to be looking for a larger venue – 150 seats to the current 60 – to make the project permanent. I’m not sure what that expansion will do to the soul of the place – it obviously depends on location and venue and fitout. I’ll probably miss the intimacy of this version, the forced hubbub that comes from a small room packed with happy diners.

In its current state, I wouldn’t deign to claim this to be one of the best restaurants in Melbourne – but I would happily say it’s one of my favourites.

And I have faith that whatever Christopoulos does, Kafeneion will likely still be delicious, and loads of fun, and pointedly, gloriously true to the spirit of this city.