There are many things to like about Maha, the flash new Middle Eastern restaurant owned by the people who brought us The Press Club. It looks good, like a clean-lined urban cave with a smidge of harem chic. A glass-walled courtyard offers hookahs and a perch to enjoy terrific cocktails with an Arabic spin, such as a gin-based Corpse Reviver with a splash of aniseedy arak. I appreciate the attention to detail: a glass of astringent hibiscus tea is offered to cleanse the palate; soups are poured from pretty braziers; the bill is delivered in a hollowed-out hardback book; and rosewater is sprinkled over customers' hands before departure.

Some of the food is brilliant. I really liked the clams and chickpeas in light, tart juices. I loved snacks such as the pea pastizzi (a snip at $3) and the thrilling, juicy-crunchy chicken and preserved lemon pastry. I was blown away by the creamy, earthy chicken parfait served with crunchy cinnamon toast.

This dish is a fine example of the way chef Shane Delia melds fine dining with Maha's more rustic repertoire: the technique is faultless, the spicing is heady and fresh.

Desserts such as the doughnuts filled with molten Turkish delight are a witty, indulgent, cultural mash-up.

With so much to enjoy, it took me some puzzling to work out why I didn't fall in love with the place after two visits. I came up with a few sticking points. Dish descriptions on the menu include many Arabic transliterations that are decoded in a glossary. Take "lamb and silverbeet kibbeh, laban, tomato and toum salad". By the time I've looked up toum, I've forgotten what laban means, let alone the many ingredients of the dishes further up the menu.

I'm all for educating diners in vocabulary as well as flavours, but the line-by-line translations common in Italian or French restaurants would be a relief here.

I dutifully ploughed through the carte, but was then steered towards the soufra (banquet) which, I was told, doesn't replicate any of the dishes on the menu. My efforts felt instantly pointless.

Each stage of the five-course soufra is a multi-dish panoply of flavour and texture, some modern and tricksy, some simple and heartland. Most dishes were good, a handful (dry blackened chicken, watery stuffed zucchini) were disappointing. But the overwhelming impression was of being overwhelmed.

I know we're here to revel in the famed hospitality of the Middle East, but I reckon pulling back would give diners and the kitchen staff more time to focus on individual dishes.

I was sold on the waitstaff as soon as I saw a bartender flip a beer bottle and catch it on the back of his hand. There's an obvious exuberance that comes from working at a hot restaurant in a sizeable young team and most service was good.

But there's always a danger that this sparky confidence will turn into a sense of entitlement to customers and their money. I caught a whiff of this in a pushy attempt to upsell wine and in a few long waits for food and attention. The intermittent arctic draft at our table was also a drag.

Maha is still a stripling, full of verve, but patchy. There's a lot to like, but I think it is capable of more. In time, I'm hoping it will become a restaurant to love.