Thirty years ago, Philippe Entremont was one of the most famous and consequential pianists in the world. Then his career went sort of quiet. Or rather, it shifted, as Mr. Entremont picked up the baton. He has held orchestral posts in New Orleans, Denver, Amsterdam, Vienna, Tel Aviv, and elsewhere. In 1997, he founded a music festival in the Dominican Republic. He has been busy and peripatetic, has this formidable French musician.

New Yorkers got a chance to hear him on Sunday night. He came to the Metropolitan Museum with the Munich Symphony Orchestra, as both conductor and pianist. Mr. Entremont was named principal guest conductor of this orchestra – not to be confused with the Munich Philharmonic, that city’s granddaddy – last year. Their program followed the traditional format so often derided by critics: overture-concerto-symphony. I’m not sure that format has been improved on, frankly.

The overture was that to “Oberon,” by Carl Maria von Weber – a delightful thing.(The overture, I mean, not Weber – although he might have been a perfectly fine fellow.) The first thing to say about this performance was that the French-horn player absolutely nailed his opening. One has so little opportunity to write that: that a horn player nailed something exposed and important. Blunders are the norm.

In this overture, Mr. Entremont was graceful and mirthful, sure and tidy. The piece breathed well, and had its proper shape. The orchestra’s sound seemed rather dry – but that may be the fault of the museum’s Grace Rainey Rogers Auditorium. In a review yesterday, I noted that just about every orchestra tends to sound warm and luxuriant in Carnegie Hall. You have to make more of your own magic in the GRR Auditorium.

Then the moment of truth: Philippe Entremont at the piano. Can he still play? Yes, he can. His concerto was Mozart’s No. 21 in C major, K. 467, sometimes called the “Elvira Madigan,” because some Swede used the slow movement in a movie of that title (1967). Cinema aside, K. 467 is one of Mozart’s most inspired creations.

Mr. Entremont conducted from the keyboard, of course, which I consider hazardous, but which is routine. Mr. Entremont was not without problems: He over pedaled, a bit; some of his playing was blunt, unfeeling; some trills were awkward. But mainly he was excellent. If he were an athlete, we’d say he “plays within himself” – he does nothing to excess. He gave us great steadiness of tempo, and a variety of tones, all of them helpful (to Mozart).

In the famous slow movement, he showed a beautiful singing line, and his phrasing was lovely. He was both courtly and lyrical – just what the music needs.

The final movement, Allegro vivace assai, was quite fast, but not too fast. The music burbled along pleasingly – even excitingly – and Mr. Entremont’s cadenza was especially good. I didn’t recognize it, as I hadn’t the cadenza in the first movement. Perhaps they are homemade – perhaps Mr. Entremont cooked them up himself.

In any case, he is a terribly smart and musical musician, and it was satisfying to see him at the keyboard again.

After intermission, he and the orchestra tackled one of the canonical symphonies, Brahms’s No. 2 in D major. This is a work that embodies geniality, contentment, appreciation, delight. For the most part, Mr. Entremont got these moods. Again, the orchestra’s sound was not ideal, but it was good enough. That sound was full, Brahmsian, although Mr. Entremont made sure that all was clear.

The principal horn,and his friends in the section, were blessedly unflubbing, even if they weren’t always on pitch. Horns aside, mistakes abounded in this performance – mistakes from individual players, and wretched entrances, from groups. To cite just one example, the closing chord of the first movement was a mess. Jumping to the last movement, it could have had more abandon, more glee, more uplift. This movement should express a happy tension, an expectancy – it did not, really.

And yet, the thought dawned: Philippe Entremont is a real conductor, conducting a real orchestra – not a pianist, conducting some lesser Munich band. And one heard a dog not barking: Mr. Entremont did nothing stupid, nothing obtrusive. A musician of his type cannot. He does not lose his smarts when he rises from a piano bench to stand on a podium.

But it would be oh-so-nice to hear him once more in recital.