[Photograh by Lori Eanes]

Rome wasn’t built in a day—and it’s no wonder, judging from the pace at this endearing ristorante, which is thoroughly Italian in all things but its name. Co-owner Alberto Avalle, a native Umbrian, ran Il Buco in New York before heading west, apparently on a mission to stress our arteries with culatello. Standout starters, like robust eggplant caponata and saffron-inflected arancine, give way to gooey carbonara and unenthusiastic osso buco, its meat too tough and its temperature lukewarm. The successes outweigh the failures, though—ravioli are a model of the genre, the soft pillows of ricotta fluffing satin sheets of pasta—and your feelings for the place are apt to turn as tender as the octopus carpaccio, spiked with lemon and pimentón. In a dining room densely merchandised with imported olive oil, conversation echoes late into the evening—at which point, there’s dessert, but that doesn’t hold much interest. Cold ricotta pie, listed for $10, is fairly priced only if you’re paid in euros.
By Josh Sens