By Paul Reidinger

LUPA, WHICH succeeds Noi, which succeeded Little Italy in a spot that has been an Italian restaurant of one sort or another in Noe Valley since time out of mind, is nearly identical in appearance to its predecessor. But if this is not immediately apparent, it's because of the one new wrinkle in the decor: the installation of a fluttering gray floor-to-ceiling curtain you must step through, as if into a circus tent, as you enter.

Before and beyond that sensuous barrier, the erstwhile Noi-goer will find the territory familiar. The restaurant's wood-framed street face retains its claret hue. The two-tiered dining room still adds a note of drama, as does the stainless-steel-rich exhibition kitchen at the rear. The interior palette of colors remains richly autumnal – plenty of dark wood and a paint scheme that puts one in mind of squash, maybe a cross between delicata and butternut. The entry curtain, interestingly, blocks just enough daylight to enhance the restaurant's sense of romantic mystery, although – a blessing for seekers of light – the tables on the lower level are flooded with late-spring sunshine long into the evening.

There are two questions for Lupa (the name refers to the she-wolf who supposedly suckled Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, and is depicted by a rather ungainly window graphic): How does it compare to Noi, and, perhaps more important for here-and-now purposes, how does it compare to nearby Bacco, whose opening around the corner a decade ago sharply raised the neighborhood's standard of Italian cooking?

Noi itself was a dramatic improvement over end-stage Little Italy, which perfumed the evening air with the scent of burned garlic. Lupa, by contrast, is more about continuity; it is quite as good as I remember Noi's being, though rumors did reach one's ears that Noi, after a strong start, had slipped – unimpressed customers and so forth.

As to Bacco: Lupa does compete at that level. The twist that benefits all parties concerned is that while Bacco's menu tilts toward the northern Italian (a fair amount of veal and cream sauces), Lupa's is pan-Italian, with a Roman accent. You can get bucatini all'amatriciana, for instance – a signature Roman dish of fat hollow spaghetti sauced with tomato, onion, and pancetta. I didn't, but I did like the deeply Roman pair of olive oil-braised artichokes ($7), each holding, like a pearl, a clove of peeled garlic.

Sometimes the Roman touches are fairly subtle. Sliced grilled duck breast ($15) is a familiar preparation in these parts, but the bed of farro – a barleylike grain that was a staple of the Roman legions – is much less so. To complete the tableau the kitchen includes a throw rug of wilted spinach and, around the edges of the plate, an insinuatingly spicy blood-orange sauce (blood oranges being closely associated with Sicily).

And sometimes there don't seem to be any Roman cues at all, yet one does not mind. Carpaccio ($6.75) needs no introduction and is a staple of Italian menus of every stripe; Lupa's version is liberally spritzed with lemon and powerfully radiates a citrus bouquet. A rosy rack of lamb ($16.25) rubbed with rosemary and served with sautéed wild mushrooms and gratin potatoes seems to belong at least as much to California as to Italy, while grilled ahi ($17.50), with a chunky sun-dried tomato sauce and served atop quartered new potatoes and a quiver of arrowlike roasted asparagus, crosses the border into definite Californianness.

I would have associated fettunta ($5.75) – basically crostini spread with spring-green fava bean puree and scattered with some whole beans – with Rome, but no: it's Tuscan. (Delicious too.) Fresh fettucine noodles ($11.50), meanwhile, sauced with tomatoes, basil, scallops, and just enough Parmesan to provide tang without obliterating the dish's sweet brininess, struck me as natural and inevitable beyond any question of national origin.

Dessert in Italian restaurants can be iffy – one is too often offered soggy tiramisu and little else – but Lupa's sweets are above the ordinary. A panna cotta ai Lamponi ($5.50), a lovely, porcelain-white custard with just the right balance of firmness and jiggle, almost resembled a piece of handmade earthenware with its vivid pipings of blueberry and raspberry coulis. And if profiteroles ($6.50) – the ice cream-stuffed pastry balls piled up in a pyramid here – make us think of the French, we must remind ourselves that the French learned to cook from the Tuscans.