Welcome back, Melbourne. Meet your new Stokehouse: a beachier, breezier, clubbier version of its former self.

Did you miss it? If you were a regular, undoubtedly. In burning down, Stokehouse rose from well-loved local for long boozy lunches to mythical legend. If you never went, maybe you missed it more. Imagined nostalgia is a powerful thing. So no surprise that in its rebirthed state, rising from literal ashes in a breezy palette of pastels, linens and dirty blonde floors, Stokehouse 2.0 has met the kind of enthusiasm a George Michael concert might inspire if he now miraculously turned up alive.

When bookings opened in November tables filled until April.

What that got you in December was a ticket to a half-finished restaurant – vents still exposed, doors leading to nowhere, concrete stairs striped in fluoro paint (destined to be tiled at some point). Ours was a wobbling table in the middle of a room so loud it was a shouting match.

It was the best and only seat in town. "It's not ready yet, but we don't care," long-time fans gushed after their Christmas party lunch, downing frosé downstairs at Pontoon. And they had a point. After an endless winter, here were picture windows looking to sand and sky, palms and pink skin. Surrounded by Pascale Gomes-McNabb's breezy hanging fabrics, pan-pipe-like chandeliers of plastic pipes (the long room, sometimes shaded by screens of charred timber slats, is the sun-drenched antithesis to her dark, glittering work at Sydney's Monopole), it felt good to be part of the club. Damn it, it felt good to be alive.

Now it's January, the best-kept secret in dining is that tables have freed up. Call today, you could be elbows deep in executive chef Richard Ousby and head chef Ollie Hansford's ocean-leaning menu tomorrow.

Stokehouse has come back swinging with a raw bar, extensive snacks and veg-driven sides to bolster the lonely vegetarian main.

There are unimpeachable strikes of deliciousness. Ruby tuna, lightly torched on one bubbled edge with a light wasabi syllabub and pickled radish. It's a holy trinity, annointed with toasted sesame. Meaty slabs of kingfish are simply dressed with pops of finger lime. Cheesy parmesan sticks that eat like Cheez-Its, for swiping through moussy creme fraiche.

There's the arrangement of poached marron and delicate pickled sweet peas doing a little dance; salads of cucumber ribbons and feta or cabbage shaved to a hair's thickness to soak up citrussy dressings. There's light and shade among the unkillable stalwarts – the steaks, fish and chips and that rainbow arc of Bombe Alaska – that have long been the restaurant's backbone.

But while this is a kitchen that still turns out an outlandishly juicy half-chicken breast bandaged in crisp pancetta with the best of them, it can be ungainly when it pushes the envelope too far. Tough agnolotti with creamed corn and fermented chilli, or roast potatoes coated in black garlic seem like an ingredient-of-now utilising afterthought.

Both those dishes emerged in early days. But in January there are arguments for drawing board adjustments. The king george whiting is too delicate for its crumb treatment, and needs all your excellent mix-it-yourself tartare to revivify. A prawn taco, a fun idea that places sweet, poached meat and whipped avocado in a sesame and pepita shell tasting of tamari nuts puts Baby in the corner.

For every low, looking up to that view creates a pretty compelling high. It also bears remembering that when Stokehouse closed, it was less the dishes people lamented than the place. Regulars are still the main part of the crowd, knocking back as many bottles of statement wine as they do VBs.

For anyone coming who hasn't been blooded, some caveats are due. The tradies haven't upped tools past Christmas so it's still loud and rough around the edges. The bar won't open until mid-February. The wine list tips its hat to Brash Higgins' Zibbibo, to Denis Pommier Chablis and Domain Leflaive Montrachet Grand Cru, but most of the fun requires investing in bottles. Bookings for up to four get you two hours at lunch – and they mean it. If you have strong feelings about your 200-250g rump cap, sirloin or eye fillet setting you back between $52 and $56, well, welcome to the club.

It's Stokehouse, the closest Melbourne comes to the views of Sydney's Icebergs or the celebrity of Los Angeles' Dan Tana's. Just being here is nine-tenths of the draw.