Big Italy

"It's just like Joe Millionaire," mumbled a companion as she stuffed her face with my gnocchi. "You remember . . . that night they went out to eat, and Evan liked Sarah's dinner better than he liked his own?"

Good grief . . . may nothing in my life ever again resemble an incident from a Fox reality series. But that stipulated, my friend was right: The Gnocchi Bolognese at Vetturini's was definitely worth switching plates for -- and that's saying a mouthful, considering that almost everything we sampled at this friendly Murray Hill restaurant was commendable.

While an Italian restaurant in Little Italy may seem about as remarkable as snowdrifts in Chardon, chef-owner Anthony Vetturini deserves special recognition for his repertoire of unusually good-tasting, moderately priced dishes. Although his menu is neither large nor trendy, Vetturini and his staff see to it that ingredients are fresh and flavors are bold and enticing. Ample portion sizes don't hurt. Neither does the fact that entrées -- most priced at less than $20 -- come with a choice of an above-average mesclun salad, accented with roasted red pepper, olives, cucumber, diced scallion, freshly made croutons, and shredded provolone, in a mellow balsamic vinaigrette; or a particularly savory version of Italian Wedding Soup, with fresh spinach, carrots, pasta, and tiny handmade meatballs, in a robust broth piqued with bits of roasted poultry. And let us not overlook the satisfying slices of Orlando's dense Italian bread that arrive at the table soon after guests are seated, along with fragrant dipping oil imbued with essences of sun-dried tomato, garlic, pine nuts, rosemary, and parsley, and finished with freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. When this kind of effort goes into such oft-neglected items, diners can bet they are in for a treat.

Although the menu features mostly trattoria standards such as Veal Marsala, Chicken Parmesan, and Spaghetti and Meatballs, the kitchen doesn't use this as an excuse to snooze. One evening's giant stuffed portobello mushroom cap, for instance, wasn't conceptually unique, but its filling of finely ground sausage and shredded provolone was exceedingly lean and meaty, with a lingering, spicy warmth; and settled on a bed of well-balanced marinara, the starter was a big, bright hug for the taste buds. Juicy-crisp prosciutto-wrapped shrimp also got the nod: In an imaginative touch, each plump, grilled shrimp was settled on a drop of thick cantaloupe-and-Triple Sec coulis and sided with a tiny wedge of fresh lemon, for an arresting and well-managed interplay of sweet, salty, and fruity tastes.

Among main courses, the kitchen's take on Veal Saltimbocca (thinly pounded, lightly breaded, and truly tender veal, topped with prosciutto, provolone, and sautéed portobello mushrooms) was moist and savory; and with its layering of kicky flavors, it was one of the few versions we've found that actually lived up to its name (which translates as "jump mouth"). Piquant Chicken Piccata also had all the right stuff, with almost paper-thin medallions of tender breast meat glossed with a sheer sauce of lemon and white wine. A side of freshly made spaghetti, from Ohio City Pasta, was the perfect finishing touch to both plates.

Vetturini's version of Frutti de Mare, however, was pretty standard stuff. Judging by its ubiquity on Italian restaurant menus, this toss of assorted seafood and pasta has plenty of fans. But in my book, it's a culinary miscalculation, no matter where it surfaces. With such finger-food ingredients as tail-on shrimp and shell-bound mussels slicked with sauce and tossed with slippery noodles, the dish is always a chore to eat, as well as a minefield for anyone wearing good threads. Then, there's the even more basic issue of taste: Do the delicate flavors of most fish and seafood really improve when paired with bold sauces of garlic and tomato? Is the transparency of good-quality pasta actually enhanced with essence of fish? Not in my opinion. Too bad, then, that Vetturini's rendition of the dish, with the predictable tail-on shrimp, big bouquets of calamari tentacles, and mussels, tossed with fettuccine in a garlicky tomato sauce, was a run-of-the-mill affair: messy and labor-intensive to eat, and with the predictable hodgepodge of muddled flavors.

That said, though, the kitchen recaptured the high ground with a bang-up version of chargrilled salmon. Thick and lush, the gently cooked filet profited from a light housemade Hollandaise, and was well matched by buttery mashed redskins and juicy sautéed mushrooms and red pepper on the side (no boring, undercooked, unseasoned broccoli florets here). And the Gnocchi Bolognese? Fit for a millionaire, with dainty, light-textured pasta knots that practically floated above a hearty tomato-and-Merlot sauce, made not with plebeian ground meat, but in the traditional Italian fashion, with ultra-rich braised pork, and given a fillip of heat from a touch of hot pepper.