There’s a sprawling phrase painted in white across Giulia’s brick and black walls: “quel che non ammazza ingrassa,” or, “that which doesn’t kill you makes you fatter.” No, it’s not that Nietzsche quote you’ve heard a million times—it’s a distinctly more Italian proverb, a reminder that everything is worth eating even if it’s not beautiful. It’s funny to see the phrase here, recalling a “nonna” wagging a wooden spoon (“mangia, mangia!”), when in reality it’s a guy with a bowtie and gelled hair delicately placing your ribbony pappardelle atop a perfectly set table.

But under the super-classy exterior there is a carnivorous realness to the dishes here. Courses of wild boar, lamb sausage, and chicken liver mousse deliver those deeply savory, buttery flavors that only rustic cuisine can. Don’t expect to be stuffed to the brim with starches; even delectable homemade pasta becomes more of a vehicle to sop up that long-simmered sauce, a bed for those braised meat morsels. And it’s all speckled with color: tiny chopped carrots, a chanterelle or two, abundant parsley.

No surprise that the restaurants of Italy are the inspiration; it was on the tawny-walled, cobblestoned via Giulia in Rome that chef Michael Pagliarini and wife Pamela Ralston finally decided to open their own spot. Giulia’s launching in 2012 was a long time coming for the well-traveled Pagliarini, who had lived in France and then bounced around in acclaimed kitchens from Boston to Chicago before completing a stage under U.K.-based Heston Blumenthal.

That wordliness, that respect for the European tradition of long and hearty meals, is reflected in the menu here. While it isn’t your grandma’s favorite “Ay-talian” buffet spot, neither is Giulia a hipster regurgitation of Italian cuisine into tiny sharing plates. And that’s refreshing: To be full and wine-drunk from abundant dishes and generous pours of red satisfies just the right amount of our fattened, meaty instincts.