By Paul Reidinger

ON THOSE DAYS , rare even in summer in the city, when we find ourselves splashing in sunlight like children in an inflatable lawn pool, it isn't difficult to understand why 19th-century emigrants from Mediterranean Europe fixed on California as a reasonable facsimile of home. Here, as there, the climate offered hot, dry summers and rainy winters; here, as there, the rugged terrain was wreathed in scrub vegetation. It is true that, viewed from the air, California's golden topography, with its pinched and canyoned hills like folds of shar-pei fur, looks quite different from that of Provence or Cinque Terre – but if you were a 19th-century immigrant, you would have been arriving by ship or train or wagon train and would have been unlikely to notice this (pardonnez-moi) wrinkle of variance from the old country.

At La Provence, a winningly named, family-run restaurant that opened in the old Mangiafuoco space earlier this summer, a long line of transom windows look west, and though they are etched with frosted images of Provençal life, they admit plenty of early evening sunlight – should there be any – to a yellowed interior of candy-striped banquette fabrics, flower vases fashioned from old Orangina bottles, and earthenware votive-candle holders in the shape of large, friendly cicadas, the noisiest bugs of summer, especially in the south of France. It all seems as if it's been there a long time and was meant to be there, though since the closing of Mangiafuoco, in 2003, a parade of pretenders, including Da Luisa and La Fiamma, have hurried through the space like hapless auditioners for some Broadway show, coming and going in virtually the same breath.

A decade ago the corner of Guerrero and 22nd Streets was one of the great noncore restaurant hubs in the city, with Mangiafuoco, Flying Saucer (just across the street), and, just down the block, Robert Reynolds's Le Trou, with its monthly rotation of French regional menus. Le Trou gave way, in the mid-1990s, to the Moa Room and, at the height of dot-com mania, all-white NeO, but those fevers have since subsided and the cutting-edge action moved east, to the Valencia Street corridor and beyond, deeper into the Mission. These days the corner pretty plainly belongs to Noe Valley: The Flying Saucer space is occupied by a Vietnamese restaurant, while NeO (after a brief reincarnation in Technicolor) has been succeeded by an Indian spot. These places are not as exciting as their antecedents, but they are favorable auguries nonetheless for La Provence, which finds itself in a relaxed neighborhood environment rather than an edgy destination one.

The menu describes the food as "cuisine soleil," and while there are a few weightier French standards – among them an unremarkable though house-made pâté ($5.95) – the cooking is generally sunny and light. Of course the kitchen offers a soupe de poissons ($16.95), which with its array of clams, shrimp, halibut, bay scallops, and anglerfish and its saffron-scented broth very much resembles bouillabaise, one of the signature dishes of Provence; it lacks only chopped tomatoes for that last touch of bouillabaise-ness. There is also pissaladière ($5.95), the Provençal thin-crust pizza topped with caramelized onion and olives. And let us not forget chèvre, or goat cheese, a warmed crottin of which appears in a bed of mixed baby greens ($6.95) with a fan of dried tomato halves.

Other dishes show a subtler Provençal touch. A plate of garlic-sautéed shrimp ($8.95) is finished with a splash of pastis, the anise-scented liqueur that has counterparts (including sambuca and ouzo) throughout the Mediterranean basin. A filet of roasted monkfish ($17.95) is served with a red-pepper coulis, haricots verts, and a petite pile of cold ratatouille, the summertime vegetable stew that represents a time-honored way of handling summer's overabundance of tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, and zucchini. Even the basket of bread that arrives soon after you're seated is accompanied not by butter or even olive oil but an anchovy-inflected tapenade, which is more interesting and less anxiety-inducing than straight fat.

The menu isn't completely twinkle-toes, and if you're interested in meat, your choices range from beef stew to rabbit to lamb. With time, though, one begins to see more clearly the ancient wisdom of using meat as a player in an ensemble – as in the duck salad ($7.95), with shreds of braised flesh mingled with radicchio, arugula, endive, and radish coins in a tarragon vinaigrette – rather than as a big starring slab. Slabs need not be overwhelming, either, at least if they are of maritime origin, such as a filet of sautéed halibut ($18.95), plated with a rice mound, a pool of tomato coulis, and an herbes de Provence-infused sauce of white wine and lemon. And while the French as a rule are not keen on vegetarianism, La Provence does accommodate these New World creatures with a meatless pasta and an aubergine farci ($9.95), a halved eggplant stuffed with onions, tomatoes, garlic, and raisins and capped with a broiled gratin.

It is fairly rare these days to find a dessert that is neither routine nor fancy, but La Provence offers a couple of them. One is a house-made cherry clafoutis ($5.95), of an almost puddinglike creaminess. The other is the discreetly spectacular tart tropezienne ($6.95), a pie-shaped slice of brioche stuffed with lemony crème patisserie and ringed by blueberries and raspberries. Like the sun itself, the tropezienne is a comfortable and familiar star. La Provence. 1001 Guerrero (at 22nd St.), SF. (415) 643-4333, www.laprovencerestaurant.net. Tues.-Sun., 5:30-11 p.m. Beer and wine. MasterCard, Visa. Not noisy. Wheelchair accessible.