Pierre Lapin also throws in some frills that go beyond the basic formula. White tapers burn on every table, wall sconces throw off Cognac-colored light from behind lampshades the size of teacups, a collection of thin flowery china dishes supplements the chunky white bistro ware. Most of all, Pierre Lapin has that rich, creamy, antique cooking — all the stuff nouvelle cuisine tried to kill.

As soon as you order, you get a preview of what you’re in for: A length of chewy, substantial baguette arrives with a small mound of cultured butter, a pile of truffled cheese spread and a pink hunk of rustic pork pâté. On a quiet night at home, this could serve as a light dinner. At Pierre Lapin, it is a little snack to stave off hunger before the appetizers.

Going back at least as far as his days at Commerce, Mr. Moore has seemed at home with profuse helpings and sauces that settled over them like a goose-down duvet over a sleeping Saint Bernard. After closing that restaurant, he opened an ode to Southern immoderation called Harold’s Meat & Three, now just Harold’s; the most memorable thing I’ve eaten there was a Kentucky hot brown sandwich on which the Mornay sauce flowed freely. He also briefly ran a less focused study of Americana called the Greenwich Grille, where I ate a chicken potpie that I thought had potential. About a week later, I learned that the place had closed.

None of Mr. Moore’s previous kitchens went for the gut quite as gleefully as Pierre Lapin’s. Your first course there could well be, and almost certainly will be if you leave the choice to me, an avalanche of mushrooms in cream cascading over the edge of a tall slab of buttered and griddled pain de mie. But it would be a mistake to overlook the Brie au four, roughly half a pound of baked Brie melting among dried figs and walnuts, all served with toasted baguette.