Wouldn't it be nice to find a little place in the country? A spot where life is calm, the hours are human, and the focus once again is on creating lovely food? An herb garden out back and a pleasant porch in the front, where regulars can sway on rocking chairs and smell the starry night air. And there you have the Birchrunville Store Cafe. At least, when it isn't also in use as the local post office.

At 38, Francis Treciak might seem a little young to be retiring to Chester County, to a BYOB cash-only cafe limited to serving five nights of dinner each week. But Frenchmen begin their trade early, at age 14. So, after more than two decades in kitchens from his native Aix-en-Provence to northern Italy, to Philadelphia's Monte Carlo Living Room, Taquet, and most recently Provence (his own, but with partners), Treciak can hardly be blamed for falling into a bucolic trance a year-and-a-half ago.

Even in the early darkness of a winter afternoon, it's easy to sense the rustic grandeur of this far-flung idyll, 40 or so miles from Center City. Stone walls line the curling roads. Pretty churches landmark the route. Alleyways of tall trees cast their shadows over rolling fields of moneyed, horsey land. And when you descend the final hairpin onto Flowing Spring Road, darned if you don't hear that spring a-babbling.

A trip to Birchrunville, though, is more than a pleasant drive. More even than a cozy seat at a wooden table in a lace-trimmed dining room painted the color of pumpkin, where the air is perfumed with candles melting in sconces. Treciak's cooking, a sunny and sophisticated expression of his French and Italian roots, is absolutely the best part of the journey.

Highlighting good natural flavors and quality seasonal ingredients, the menu is limited to the daily inspirations, or variations, rather, on some classic rustic flavors.

Late fall is game time, and Treciak has some keepers. A meaty chop of tender venison comes on an elegantly bending bone, glazed with black currants or blueberries steeped in shiraz wine. Thick rounds of moist wild boar are stuffed with soft cloves of roasted garlic, then ringed in a crisp collar of pancetta that brings out just the right hint of herby pig.

Butternut squash is turned to creamy bisque, rich with port and rosemary. Mussels infuse the brandied saffron cream of their silky soup with a flavorful but measured reminder of the sea.

Treciak is fond of painting plates with colorful oils and vinegar, swirling red pepper purees and vibrant green streaks beneath splatters of balsamic black. While I would have preferred sometimes that he dressed his greens more evenly, these alternative vinaigrettes were usually more than frivolous decoration, adding layered tones of freshness to otherwise simple dishes. Sun-dried tomato vinaigrette added tartness to the warm puff of a rich goat cheese souffle. Balsamic dots countered the richness of truffle that shadowed his fabulous Caesar salad, a bouquet of romaine belted with thin strips of prosciutto, then showered with shards of parmesan brittle.

At times, though, the kitchen's plates were a little too precious. A salad of watercress and shrimp, mounded into a crisped parmesan cheese tuile basket with crumbled goat cheese and raspberry vinaigrette was so overconstructed, it tasted less than the sum of its parts. The napoleon of salmon, crab and seaweed seemed out of place here with its vaguely Asian bent and trendy skyscraper architecture. Even if the crab and salmon made a clever pairing on my first try - when the fish wasn't "too" smoked - that tall, narrow, layered plug simply asked to be knocked over.

Even in his Mediterranean mood, Treciak sometimes needs to be stifled. His Italian fish soup piled far too many morsels of seafood into a small bowl, followed by a haystack of blanched leek. It was impossible to taste any one thing clearly, let alone the pristine saffron broth.

More often, however, this kitchen rose on some familiar flavors that sang in true harmony.

A thick pink slice of foie gras terrine baked in Sauternes wine, richer and more creamy than any butter, was sparked by a honeyed marmalade of onions in red wine.

Mustard-brushed rack of lamb was a tender vision of moist meat, sided with interesting risottos that I loved despite the occasional crunchy grain, greened with herby mint or touched with earthy truffle and porcini. Excellent cuts of filet mignon received equal respect. On one occasion, it arrived glazed with slices of melted brie and ringed with herby oil; on another, it was mounded with meaty wild mushrooms and Dijon cream.

Fish selections were sparse on the late-fall menus, but I enjoyed the one I had, an expertly sauteed salmon rubbed with a piquant pommade of salty black olive.

While a talented chef such as Treciak can carry a kitchen this size with barebones help, finding skilled service beyond the city's gravitational pull can be an insurmountable challenge. Considering this, he has found and trained an excellent group of young servers from the area, whose down-to-earth demeanor meant casual service, but in no way compromised these refined dishes.

They knew the menu well, paid close attention to our table, and even had a charming manner of stripping unnecessary pretense from the meal.

When we asked to hear the desserts again, our server said it more clearly.

"Basically, this one's a fancy Butterscotch Krimpet and that one's a fancy Kit-Kat bar."

Homespun and right on. I could not better describe these favorite confections myself. Except to add that the moist butterscotch cake was crowned with excellent cassata ice-cream from Sweet Daddy's in Wayne and that the Kit-Kat's hazelnut crunch was padded with a silky chocolate ganache.

Of course, there can be no pretense when the restrooms are located through the door across the front porch, beside a wall of postal boxes.

"Do you suppose it's a real post office?" said one curious woman, charmed by what in Center City would no doubt be a prop.

Hey, the chef has moved to a small country town. How else is he going to get mail?

Craig LaBan's e-mail address is claban@phillynews.com.