La Maison Troigros, the record-holding Michelin-starred French restaurant, open its kitchen doors in new doco

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Fair dinkum, this documentary about the kitchen shenanigans of high-end restaurants doesn't have any of the usual cooking show clichés.

There's none of that showy bravado, hectic energy, or furious arguments, mate. The kitchen soundscape remains nice and tame, with just a gentle rhythmic beat. Even when the stoves are going hot and the choppin' is happening quickly, you won't see anyone breakin' a sweat throughout the whole performance.

Le Bois sans Feuilles is the latest incarnation of the iconic French restaurant La Maison Troigros, a place that's retained its three Michelin star reputation for a record-breaking 69 years.

The spectacle on display isn't just a feast for the eyes – it's a showcase of skills.

The open kitchen layout, where every worker's in full view, is like a 19th century operating theatre. Chefs, equipped with tweezers and pinpoint skills, cluster around serving dishes, carefully combining and shaping each ingredient – including kidneys and brains – until the finished plate makes an appearance.

When the restaurant was still operating from Roanne, 90ks north-west of the culinary capital, Lyon, the second-gen brothers Jean and Pierre transformed their parents' food joint into a hub for modern cooking, where fresh ingredients, creativity and a light hand came first. Today, the restaurant's operating in the country outback of Ouches, with huge windows running from floor to ceiling that take in the views of the surrounding farm land.

That same doctrine's been faithfully followed by Pierre's son, Michel Troisgros – now the esteemed head of his family's restaurant empire – and his own sons, César and Leo.

Their cooking is lovingly and carefully put together: fresh artichoke hearts are matched with lamb, garlic flowers, and sage; John Dory fillets are sliced into flower shapes, decorated with black squid ink, and floated on top of green curry; strands of flaky puff pastry are made into a nest, where it looks like real eggs are sitting on top of a dessert.

In a workplace where mistakes are practically a given, even the most basic errors are just an minor hassle to sort out. When a young cook forgets to remove the blood vessels from a serve of veal brains, Michel tells him to check out the thick chef's books, where he goes through the proper way of cooking that particular dish, line by line. The lesson gets passed on like a bit of old-fashioned fatherly advice – encouraging, but with a bit of a knowing smirk.

Director Frederick Wiseman, still going strong at 95, has earned his place as a respected elder in his own creative field. Wiseman's films, often made with a small crew and featuring the director doubling up as sound recordist, consistently avoid the typical approaches that have become closely tied to the documentary style.

His trademark style – a fly-on-the-wall perspective, unobtrusive and unnoticed, without music, introduction, voices or on-screen commentary – can have a trance-like, fully engulfing effect.

His films are bursting with personality and some real barbs in the way he weaves together institutions (ranging from welfare offices in New York to the National Gallery in London) and the beauracracy that runs 'em. The way government services are failing all over the shop and what could be is contrasted with how things are going for people from different backgrounds.

With Menus-Plaisirs, his 47th feature and counting, Wiseman has seemingly grabbed hold of the closest thing to a little slice of heaven – at least, that's the opinion of those who can stump up the cash.

Across its four-hour runtime (back at home, the flick is probably best enjoyed with a selection of cheeses and a brief break you give yourself), the director's curiosity takes the movie to local fromageries, farms and greenhouses around the lush countryside.

Going on a bit, heaps of operators reckon the ground they're working on is fundamental, as it's the key to a "good thing keeping good". It's a small-scale operation that thrives off heaps of passion, sustainable methods and technical expertise, right from when they feed organic cow's milk to the baby kids.

One can draw comparisons between the indulged goats and César's own little bloke, a bub still chenging on mushroom pasta - the foundations of the Troisgros family continue to be carefully looked after.

G'day mates! Menus-Plaisirs loves gettin' creative with the bub, where Michel and his team think outside the box, and goin' over new menu items starts a ripper of a discussion, with feedback and ideas flyin' back and forth like a game of Aussie Rules footy.

Afreya's overwhelming delights are still laced with an awareness of the enormous privilege on show, conjuring the inherent rivalry between artist and benefactor.

At the front-of-house, an army of waiters (accompanied by Michel himself) look after the type of customers who can afford the $550 seasonal menu (or reserve a $22,000 bottle of wine).

One customer asks staff about sulphites in the wine, while another mentions Balzac in a philosophical yarn when ordering. Try not to raise an eyebrow as a concerned Aussie businessman tries to rate the wine, or waves his hand over the plate to take in its aroma.

Most of us won't get a spot at an exclusive joint like that, but for those hungry for a big screen experience, the movie serves up a treat that's genuine and bloody good, showcasing some of the most creative cooking you'll ever see.