By Paul Reidinger

IF REPASTORIA IS a real word in Italian, I have been able to find no evidence of it. If it is a made-up word, it is an evocative one, summoning, for the Anglophone, the joyous spirits of repast and pasta. And at Repastoria Satyricon, which opened recently in the heart-of-the-Castro space vacated a few months ago by Tin-Pan Asian Bistro, you get your word's worth of both.

As for Satyricon ... well, Fellini, naturally. But he borrowed the title for his movie from the imperial Roman writer and orgiast Petronius, whose latter-day literary descendants might be said to range from Henry Miller to Dennis Cooper. Satyricon, as a restaurant name, would be a curiosity (if not an affront) in almost any place except the Castro, whose long history of orgiastic high jinks and communal satyriasis does set a certain tone, even if the neighborhood today seems more like a strip mall than it did, or should.

But step inside and through the burgundy curtain and the dark spectacle of urban merchantry fades. The basic footprint of Tin-Pan has survived the redo – there is still a long open kitchen along one of the side walls deep in the restaurant – but the redo is major. The new look is full of old-fashioned warmth, from the intricately textured, cream-colored, plastery-looking wallpaper to the belle epoque lamps to the comfortably upholstered banquettes. The place feels very old-school San Francisco – and also, in a strange way, Roman, which is good, because many if not all the roads of chef (and owner) Jay Bagi's menu lead that way.

Rome, like Los Angeles, is underrated as a food city. Both are company towns, and company towns tend to reduce to a single dimension. Yet Rome, like Los Angeles, is favorably situated for agriculture and viticulture; there is rich land, a mild climate, and water flowing from the snowpack on nearby mountains. I was slightly crushed that Repastoria Satyricon's wine list does not include any frascati, the fresh and lively white wine from Latium, the region around Rome. Apart from being authentically Roman, it would make a nice match with much of the food, which is quite robust, if I might borrow for a moment the neocons' favorite adjective about the military mischief they cannot seem to stop making.

One has had many a bowl of seafood soup over the years, from bouillabaisse to clam chowder. Often, in restaurants, these soups are pureed, which provides an easy, elegant smoothness while covering the kitchen's tracks as to what was actually thrown into the pot. A pureed seafood soup in that sense is a lot like sausage, an exercise in don't ask, don't tell. Bagi is way out of the closet in this respect; he doesn't puree his seafood soup ($7), and so its constituents are easily recognized: chunks of monkfish and tomato adrift in an anchovy-scented, peppery broth. It is simple and elegant, yes, but also honest and with a strong identity. You can hardly ask for anything more from a plate (or bowl) of food.

Anchovies again, subtly, in a Caesar salad ($6.50), notable mainly for its crisp romaine leaves and long, wide shavings of Parmesan cheese – like something a carpenter with a plane might have left behind. No anchovies – and none needed – in a chickpea soup ($6), plain and rich, stiff enough to hold a soft peak, and finished with just a light splash of extra-virgin olive oil. If there is a more gratifyingly virtuous edible than chickpeas (in whatever form), I haven't eaten it.

The menu offers a number of pastas and risotti, but I was a bit disappointed not to find listed among them some version of pasta all'amatriciana, an eternally Roman dish of tomatoes, bacon, and onion, often tossed with the chubby, hollow strands of pasta called bucatini. A near relation (most closely associated with Naples) is the sauce called puttanesca – of tomatoes, garlic, hot pepper flakes, olives, and anchovies; Bagi uses it on house-made spinach tagliatelle ($12.50) and seems also to use anchovy paste here, since a fragrantly briny pool gathers in the sump of the shallow bowl. And I suspect him of adding a bit of sugar to modulate the salt and acidity. I wish only that he had taken the final step and pitted the olives, for I nearly broke a tooth when I trustingly chomped down on one of them.

Unpitted olives recurred on a plate of grilled pork loin ($16.50). They were commingled with citrus-braised fennel shavings (fennel being a Roman favorite of long standing, introduced to the city by the Jewish diaspora), which commingled with a low mountain of celery-root puree – mashed potato-like, though with an edge of bitterness that could go either way, depending on your taste. I would have preferred mashed potatoes. I also would have preferred pitted olives, though at least this time I was ready and did no heedless chomping.

Olive-free dishes that came to our attention included a creamy risotto ($9.50) dotted with green peas, bits of carrot, and chicken livers; a plate of small, shapely ravioli pillows ($14), some green, some white, filled with an artichoke-goat cheese mash and lubricated by a lemon-mint butter; and a slice of pumpkin cheesecake ($7) coarsened with chopped pistachios. Wouldn't really expect olives of any kind with the last, of course, but would gladly have traded the nuts for a bit more moistness, since dry cheesecake is a piteous thing.

Repastoria Satyricon. 2251 Market (at Noe), S.F. (415) 565-0733. Lunch: Wed.-Fri., 11 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Dinner: Wed.-Mon., 5-11 p.m. Brunch: Sat.-Sun., 11 a.m.-3:30 p.m. Full bar. American Express, MasterCard, Visa. Not noisy. Wheelchair accessible.