Powerful rustic Italian flavors served with South Philly friendliness

The "three little steps" that Tre Scalini is named after can be found in Rome on the Piazza Navona - Tre Scalini is the popular sidewalk cafe there where the chocolate ice cream dessert tartufo apparently was invented. DiRenzo, who is from the nearby Molise region on Italy's central Adriatic coast, says she was enchanted by the cafe because "it is the place for friends, where everyone goes to meet."

It is an appropriate name for DiRenzo's cozy South Philadelphia restaurant. Its wood-beamed retro dining room - complete with rumpus-room mirrors and stone veneer - seems to thrive with tables of old friends and regulars come to savor her homemade pasta, garlicky broccoli rabe and succulent veal chop heaped with mushrooms. A polished couple in crisp suits and gold jewelry exchange a kiss in the kitchen corner, beneath the sign that reads "la cucina." A lively foursome of post-hippie boomers dressed in black leather, jeans and mohair boas uncork their third bottle of (bring your own) wine, talking-up their friendly server to find out his family connection. Nephew? Daughter? Daughter's boyfriend? Everyone who works here seems to be related, giving Tre Scalini more than intimacy, a sense of familiar ease.

It's the kind of place that makes people feel at home - although perhaps a little too comfortable in the case of one of my guests, a friend of a friend, and a new star for my Undesirable Guest List (a.k.a. UGLi). He bellowed with stunning pomposity throughout the evening to a room full of strangers, spouting his dubious views on movies and more than a few unsolicited details of his sex life. We all would have slid beneath the linen out of embarrassment had the food not been so good as to demand that we stay above table. It was a clinic in the powers of simple, rustic flavors. Rooted in the homecooking traditions of Di Renzo's native Molise, it is bolstered by the kitchen's admirably consistent hand.

Grilled triangles of soft polenta come topped with snappy broccoli rabe, a hint of green bitterness tempered by a whiff of sauteed garlic. Stewed cannellini beans are topped with plump curls of shrimp, which add a gentle sea flavor to the light marinara broth. Vegetarian lentil soup is as simple as it gets, but this soulful bowl of tiny disks, fresh tomato and olive oil is impossible not to finish.

A salad of buffalo mozzarella is softer, sweeter and creamier than I've had in a long time, its basil-flecked tomatoes tasting ripe even in chilly March. A bed of thinly shaved fennel root meets the perfect antidote to anise crunch - a sweet round slice of orange citrus and a softening drizzle of vibrant green olive oil.

I ask DiRenzo about her cooking secrets. Why does she use pasta water to lighten her sauces? What color does she fry her garlic? Why does she cook her marinara with the lid off? Why is it done when the oil rises to the surface? And her answer is always the same: "That's what my mother told me. Whatever I do, it's the way my mother taught me." So, I guess I ought to thank DiRenzo's mother, Adelina Scarduzio, for doing such a good job. At 87, she is still chief of gnocchi rolling ("I'm not allowed," says DiRenzo), but the family traditions have been passed down with great success.

One of my very favorites is the homemade pasta di casa, the square-cut spaghetti that DiRenzo kneads with her hands for 20 minutes before pressing through a harp-like loom of wires known as la chitarra, "the guitar." Twirled with a bright bolognese filled with finely minced beef and gently steeped tomatoes, a forkful of its al dente strands spring in the mouth with lusty homespun freshness. The orecchiette are addictive in their garlicky oil sheen; the little pasta cups cradle bits of bitter broccoli rabe and crumbles of homemade sausage. And though the squid ink pappardelle are not house-made, they are still a triumph, delicate black noodle ribbons in tomato essence, jeweled with lumps of sweet crab and perfectly cooked shrimp.

I was less impressed by the lobster ravioli, which tasted more of cheese filling and blush tomato sauce than anything crustacean. A generous fillet of Chilean sea bass was overcooked, dimming the piquant collage of olives, tomatoes and capers that covered it like a blanket. The three large grilled lamb chops were also overcooked, but had a penetrating marinade of balsamic and rosemary to compensate, a nice match for the roasted cubes of potato that come with every entree.

Still, these missteps were exceptions to the rule - Di Renzo's other seafood and meat entrees were sent off without a hitch. The brodetto stew was brimming with perfectly cooked seafood and a marinara broth that focused their flavors. Her rendition of salmon was one of the most inventive takes on the ubiquitous fish that I've seen, rolling a fillet into a thick coil around minced garlic and oregano. Seared brown and crisp on each end, the center was ringed by a racing stripe of soft pink flesh that sparked with flavor under an olive oil glaze of balsamic and lemon juice.

The veal dishes were also divine, whether a thick chop criss-crossed with grill marks, or pillowy medallions of tender fillet. Each came beneath an earthy shower of mushrooms - porcini, shiitake and portobellos - that moistened the pink meat with their woodsy, garlic juice.

Such soulful cooking makes me wish I had been in during one of the restaurant's other signature specials - the pan-roasted baby goat, quail or rabbit, or even sweet-and-sour chicken livers agrodolce.

The desserts at Tre Scalini are sufficient to sate the sweet tooth, but given the homespun touch that transforms the rest of the meal, it's a disappointment that none of them are made in-house. The white pistachio and rum-raisin ice creams are nevertheless very tasty, the Bindi sorbets-in-a-fruit a little less so.

The tiramisu and profiteroles are average - even if they do come from Italy, as DiRenzo tells me proudly. At the very least, though, she could import some tartufo to honor the cafe that inspired the Tre Scalini name. Otherwise, four steps on 11th Street is four steps, right? Maybe we ought to be heading down to good old Quattro Scalini? "Actually," she says, in defense of her own stoop, "I have three steps and a landing."