he Italian painter of un-evocative still life, Giorgio Morandi, was the first item that came up when I Googled Keith McNally’s new restaurant. Then, upon my initial visit to the unsightly building, nestled within the sightly Greenwich Village, a power outage shut the kitchen down. While I might have taken these omens to heart, the bread and olive oil, sampled from an outdoor table with an uninspiring view, proved the perfect prototypes of oft-overlooked solid-dining staples. The vivid chartreuse and powerful punch of the oil intrigued me as much as the staff’s magnanimous apologies and offerings of another reservation at my convenience. They were good on promises. One night later, after briefly holding the line to the most preternaturally adept of Italian of accents I’d ever heard, I was back. Surprising, because Morandi has packed mobs since its opening over two months ago, and reservations two weeks to a month in advance are strongly recommended.

The second time around, and with the lights actually on, it was hard to miss the film-set quality of the room’s disingenuous furnishings. From flimsy tables to the slapdash, quasi-rustic, beamed ceiling, the décor made my heart sink slightly with embarrassment as I sat down.

The menu and the decently priced wine list offer a popular survey of each of Italy’s regions. I chose a fare-gauging, universal selection: hand-made pasta. As a lead-up to the main, I tried the carciofi alla giudea, or fried artichoke, which boasted more texture than flavor, but was quite good. It was crisp on the outside with a tender enough center to be eaten whole, as the Romans do. The radicchio e scamorza, grilled radicchio with fried smoked cheese, were a little greasy, while the side dish of caponata, a Sicilian tomato, capers and red pepper-based, stewed vegetable mélange, was an even balance of all the right savory ingredients. Lastly, the capesante, or scallops, served pan-seared rare with a white wine caper sauce, were fresh, tender and tasty, though in no way memorable. I was starting to notice a pattern.

Predictably, the pasta neither failed nor wowed, arriving simple and understated. Lumpy, imperfect noodles, their texture light, resilient and al dente, were dressed minimally with lemon, olive oil, sage and grated parmesan. Presumably Chef Jodi William's handiwork, they enjoyably recalled Il Buco's heyday. As I savored the authenticity, I realized how the rest of Morandi's casual trattoria posturing, at its contrived best, shoddy worst, or middling blandest, lacked this level of quality. The waiter, in his definitively un-Italian rustic, wheat-sack apron appeared elated to speak the language with my fluent companion as he served dessert, thus lending some flavor to an otherwise insipid ricotta/lemon cake. The came the epiphany: Even the warm, heavily accented waiters were just players in McNally's culinary cabaret of hokey chain-hotspots that arguably rival Ronald McDonald in strategic placement.

Despite the hype and the persistent following, Morandi lives up to its namesake. While Williams does have the simplest of staples down pat, there is no identifying stamp to the experience, save the feeling that one is participating in a patronizing farce. The predictably infamous bar scene is unquestionably the whole point behind the place. It's an ironic motivation, as the room itself resembles those family-style chain restaurants conveniently located just outside the Duomo of every Italian city (senza the self-serve counter and con New York prices). I guess that’s why this place isn't called Modigliani.