“They’re really still calling this place Provence?” my friend asked. I had to say yes. For decades, she had been a customer of the old Provence, at the same address, where, despite its reputation for indifferent service, she had never once been given a lipstick-smudged glass, had wine poured on her leg, or waited more than 10 minutes for a menu. We experienced all three mishaps in a single visit to the restaurant’s new incarnation.

Marc Meyer and Vicki Freeman, the owners of Cookshop and Five Points, who, like my friend, were devotees of the old place, bought the classic French restaurant from the original proprietor when it closed last year. They installed chef Lynn McNeely and opened a revamped version last month.

The new version has kept the wood-lined, homey feel of the old establishment, updating it with attractive touches while successfully avoiding a kitschy movie-set country-bistro look. It also has packed in more seats, at the expense of comfort. Warm, efficient service was never Provence’s strongest suit; now the aisles are crammed with white-shirted employees who faithfully maintain and even expand on that unhappy tradition. Is it possible that the new management would train their servers to step on toes and bring the wrong orders just for nostalgia’s sake?

Mr. McNeely’s Provençal cooking touches all the bases, from regional classics to endeavors tinged with modernism and with just a hint of the fresh and local aesthetic that the owners call “farm forward.” There’s also a raw bar and a cheese selection. Unfortunately, a lot of the dishes have a bit too much room for improvement. Bouillabaisse is the flagship of Provenççal cuisine, known for its rich, concentrated flavor. In a restaurant called Provence, something is amiss when the accompanying croutons are the tastiest part of a bouillabaisse ($26) that’s otherwise a disappointing watery orange soup, crammed with overcooked, under-seasoned seafood.

Pissaladière, a savory tart ($9) has a light, flaky crust thickly covered with sweetly browned onion and dotted with black olives, but between the sharp, shriveled olives and a substrate of anchovy, the end product is just inedibly salty. Round, crisp salt-cod fritters ($9) make a more successful starter, hot and unimpeachably tasting of freshly fried carbohydrate, with fibers of fish inside providing a satisfying chew, if not much else. Other dishes have more taste but a rustic heartiness that feels out of place on sticky days when the front windows are thrown open to the street: A gratin of delicious assorted wild mushrooms ($12), roasted till their edges crisp, topped with salty, chalky goat cheese, and nearly drowned in thick yellow cream makes an appetizer that’s wonderfully high in flavor, but hardly whets the appetite for a meaty main course. Likewise ravioli and chewy snails ($12), tossed together in a garlic-laden cream sauce with lingering vigor.

The best of the main courses might be a tender and mild-flavored braised pork shoulder ($19), of quintessentially American-tasting pork and beans. A thick, slightly tough steak of lamb ($24) is simply grilled and sliced and seasoned with mint. It comes in a savory reduction with a handful of sweet miniature carrots, still with the deep, delicious flavor of the farm but mushy-textured inside their shriveled skins, the victims of overcooking.

The French Label Rouge certification honors chickens that were raised on pasture: They have meat that’s much tastier — also tougher — than the norm. At Provence, that pedigree is a lone French-style echo of Cookshop’s passionate liturgy of farm sources. Rotisserie cooking gives the birds ($23) crisp skins, charred in places, and a smoky savor.

The wines of the region are delightful and take center stage on an affordable, all-French wine list that runs from soft, food-loving viogniers to resonant Bandols. Half-liter carafes of house red and white ($18) are no bargain, though; the staff seemed oddly reluctant to identify the dully cloying, dimensionless Rhone-esque red, and we left the carafe unfinished. A raft of French-accented cocktails made with apéritifs like Byrrh and Lillet emanate from the new bar that fills half the front room. Desserts ($8) are somewhat perfunctory: The trio of profiteroles filled with good licorice, caramel, and meringue ice creams would be just as enjoyable without their cardboardy pastry shells and boat of thin chocolate sauce; a rich and sour lemon-rhubarb tart is decent but unspectacular.

The new Provence has potential, with smart owners, a congenial space, and name recognition, but so far it’s falling short. If it’s intended as a tribute to the old Provence, it’s a somewhat poignant one.

Provence (38 MacDougal St., between Prince and Houston streets, 212-475-7500).