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The address may be George Street, but to get to the actual restaurant, you need to step up into the front bar, walk through and go out the back, across a small terrace, up five more steps, turn and walk three cobblestoned metres to the right along a public laneway, then go up six more steps, past chefs working at the grill, and you’re there.

It’s batshit crazy, and therein lies the charm of Le Foote, the latest opening from the Swillhouse group (Hubert, Alberto’s Lounge, Shady Pines Saloon and The Baxter Inn).

All those ups and downs, nooks and crannies, verandahs and balconies are all part of the same venue. You can still use the bar the way people have been using bars in The Rocks for 200 years or so – just drop in for a drink. (These days, a two-sip negroni, Moo brew, or saucy little Sweet Paris cocktail.)

The restaurant, however, is a destination. And, obviously, a journey. You come here not because it’s in The Rocks, but in spite of it being in The Rocks.

Dubbed a Mediterranean grill, it’s headed by former head chef of The Apollo, Stefano Marano, and run by a typically Swillian high-personality team under Edward (Murph) Murphy. The 50-seat main dining room is like a very flash shed; a pointed roof allowing light to filter through the tall leafy trees to the rear. Walls are lined with the tiles of a spectacular mural representing Etruscan figures, giving it the air of a basement crypt. It’s a great dining room; warmed by candlelight in the evening, tables double-clothed in white, ready for anything.

The Mediterranean remit gives permission for the menu to wander around Greece, Italy, France and Spain. There’s a cool little dish of anise-spiked taramasalata ringed by baby radishes and vegetable crudites for dipping. You might like to add the crisp-crusted, house-baked focaccia ($8) for swiping. That could also be handy for the pork rillettes ($22), the soft, shreddy mixture packed into a mould and sliced like a terrine, because the crisps with it are just that bit too crisp.

Skewers of calamari and pancetta are grilled and rested in a pool of oregano-strong salmoriglio dressing ($22); a good order that’s smoky, scorchy and textural.

A small plate of lemon risotto ($30) hides its sunny turmeric-tanned Acquerello rice under a grey carpaccio roof of finely sliced raw prawn, turning its back firmly on Instagram. Looks ugly, tastes beautiful.

The narrative moves from Merimbula oysters to 800-gram rib-eyes and big bottles of red, as street urchins play in the streets and a mysterious dark-haired woman throws her shoes from a balcony – so sorry, just fell into a Fellini movie for a minute. Back now.

That 800-gram Black Tyde rib-eye is listed at $210, so I’m all about a nice little crisply skinned duck sausage ($26) with a watercress salad and a puddle of Dijon mustard instead. The grill does a good job of medium-rare Rangers Valley bavette ($42), but the most striking main course is swordfish “rib-eye” ($70), grilled on the bone and sent out awash with a gently piccante tomato oil. Swordfish can be one-dimensional, or worse, fibrous; this is meltingly, juicily buttery.

Smallish portions reign, and there is no pasta. I feel there should be pasta, but I may have been watching too much Fellini.

A small marble headstone lists puds, of which rhum baba ($18) is the most dolce vita, complete with sabayon and maraschino cherry. It still feels a little dry after its soaking in rum – ironic given that The Rocks was historically so rum-dependent.

At this early stage, the restaurant is the star, with the food playing an excellent supporting role. Classy, transporting and fun, it already marks a defining point for The Rocks. Pushed further, with more lavish, generous, bacchanalian food, more smoke and sizzle and a full embrace of the exuberant, rip-roaring, scallywag history of The Rocks, it could also define its next chapter.