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Welcome to my French bistro fantasy league. Just like the AFL fantasy league but with fewer hamstring injuries, it’s a place to do battle over the idea of the perfect Gallic bolthole. Pour moi? There’s candlelight, starched linen and rows of wine bottles transmitting siren-like temptation. There’s a cosy atmosphere conjured by red-brick walls and tables placed so close together it seems almost salacious in post-pandemic times. And there’s a boudin noir – blood sausage – just like the one Mia Coady-Plumb is dishing up at Bar Magnolia.

Singing with warm, high-spice notes – the quatre épices of pepper, dried ginger, cloves and nutmeg – and coaxed into just-crispness by a truckload of butter in the pan, it’s a dish ($18) destined to swing through the seasons. On one night, it twinned beautifully with apple; another saw it united with fennel – a roasted frill of it on top and fennel soubise (read: cream and butter sauce with a licence to kill) beneath. It’s bloody lovely and emblematic of the real, unpretentious French cooking that Coady-Plumb is championing at this new Brunswick bistro. Magnolia is her first spin as an owner, along with wine guy Lawrence Scanlon, and the two newbies are responsible for a gorgeously unreconstructed place with a strong gravitational pull.

The duo met working at the now-defunct Theodore’s and, in the way of professional hospo folk, got talking over knock-off drinks about what their own French bistro fantasy might be. That conversation has led to a place where the beguiling mise en scène accords with the kind of classic French food Julia Child once swooned over: “Not trendy, souped-up fantasies, just something very good to eat.” Or, as Coady-Plumb describes her food: “Honest, interesting, fatty.”

It’s a handy rubric for the scallop served on the shell, roe intact, in a ruffle of endive and with roe butter lending a subtle back-note rather than the full-funk monty (it’s $16, but it pays to know it’s a hand-harvested queen scallop from Coffin Bay). There’s a rugged, pistachio-crusted duck terrine ($26) with a creamy, liver-parfait centre that comes with super-crunchy duck-fat croutons for scooping. Pork côtelette ($40) does its thing with caramelised onions and a drinkable cider and seeded cider mustard jus that’s all tang and spark. Blobs of bone marrow add a lick of interest to flathead meunière ($44), the whole fish winking on the plate from beneath its lemon-butter cloak of capers and herbs.

It’s so confident, in a non-shouty way, that you’d think Cody-Plumb has been in her impossibly compact open kitchen for the better part of a decade rather than a few short months. It comes as little surprise to learn that she started her career at Sydney big-hitters Quay, Aria and Rockpool before moving to Melbourne’s Anchovy, Town Mouse and Meatsmith.

The boudin noir is bloody lovely and emblematic of the real, unpretentious French cooking Coady-Plumb is championing.

A take on Damien Pignolet’s poireaux vinaigrette ($20) is a tribute to her culinary hero and a Magnolia standard bearer. Cold, poached baby leeks (some diners have mistaken them for spring onions, which tickles me greatly) with boiled egg, smoked almonds and a tarragon vinaigrette is pure retro charm, the kind of thing you might find at that farmhouse lunch in the Loire.

Like the food, the wine list isn’t superficial or faddy despite leaning towards the lower end of the intervention scale. Scanlon, whose own Street Walking Cheetah and Dirty Black Denim labels are represented, has amassed a Franco-Oz collection based on sustainable farming fundamentals that shows depth and interest. A Coravin means you can go spendy if you like – there’s a $39 glass of German riesling that proves wonderful with Sydney rock oysters ($6 each) laced with a chive and white pepper mignonette that tickles the throat as they slip down.

Bar Magnolia has sprung out of the box with the chutzpah of two people who know exactly what they want to do. They’ve struck a chord: it’s fun watching the crowds burst through the doors each evening. And even though the bar top is timber rather than marble, I’m willing to forgive such an egregious oversight when fantasy becomes reality in such a winning way.

This review was originally published in Good Weekend magazine