ITALIAN SPOKEN HERE: The Schettini family--Eric, Gino and Amy.

If you want to hear the purest Italian spoken, you can board an Alitalia flight to Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport, or you can head to the Pearl District. The cheaper route will take you to Piazza Italia, a little piece of heaven housed not in some quattrocento palazzo, but in a venticento condo. "What a wonderful restaurant," I told Gino Schettini, the owner, after my first meal. He protested: "Eh, eez not a ristorante, eez a family Homa!"

Lucky is the bambino who grows up in such a dwelling. Piazza Italia is one of the most ebullient and serious food emporia in town--part deli, part espresso bar, part gelateria, part trattoria. You feel you have left Portland (make that America) and been transported to a land where such places are 10 lira a dozen, one on every street corner, and all wonderful. It seems that the entire staff here speaks Italian, but if it's not quite Roma (I don't recall Nordstrom shopping bags in the Eternal City), perhaps it's North Jersey. On one recent night I was taken back to my N.J. childhood by a squat, unlit cigar-chomping guy in a black suit posted at the entrance, and by a table of women with bouffant hair, one of whom sported rings on her thumb. Pure Bergin County nostalgia. Even the background music is pure Italy--mediocre pop stuff that's the aural equivalent of spaghetti westerns: just right to put you in an authentic mood.

The salumeria or deli is stocked to bursting: mortadella, finocchiona, a range of prosciutti, a brace of salsicce, and cured salame hanging from the ceiling in seeming defiance of Portland's puritanical practices, and a variety of cheeses--several kinds of pecorini, stracchino, mozzarella di bufala, ricotta salata, and the stunning smoked scamorza. There's a wall of pastas, another of Italian wines, a cart of olive oils, and a case of enticing desserts, including cannoli stuffed with sweetened ricotta, tiramisu in the form of both pudding and cake, and a pastry known only as Il torte di Nona (Grandma's). Near the entrance a round stone table looks as if it's been lifted from Nero's gardens, inevitably seating a family that appears to have been airlifted from the Emilia-Romagna. Steaming bowls of minestrone and pasta make their way around the room, wine gets poured in chicly unchic tumblers, and a contented buzz permeates the precincts.

This is exactly what the Pearl needs. More loft owners would be wise to reserve space for such small, spirited, ethnic restaurants, but even more so for the specialty food shops that would make this often impersonal area come alive and become an exciting neighborhood rather than remaining attractive but vapid real estate.

Piazza Italia is so gratifying a place to be that one can easily forgive the fact that not everything emerging from the kitchen is uniformly excellent. The minestrone can be a bit thin, the lasagna ordinary, the cannoli a tad sodden. But most dishes are very satisfying. The menu, both for lunch and dinner, is written on a blackboard and really quite simple: a selection of antipasti and salads, a few pastas, one main course; most dishes run about $11 or $12. In fact the small choice is what gives focus and cohesion to Piazza Italia, which never tries to be other than what it is: a family-run establishment with modest home-cooked food. The antipasto, served properly at room temperature to bring out the flavors, is composed simply of sliced meats including a peppery capocollo, a few cheeses, and a handful of olives--nothing from a jar. Even better is a gathering of Lombardy bresaola, a raw and finely sliced fillet of salt-cured, air-dried beef that's delicate and sharp at once, and placed on a handful of arugula, dressed with just lemon juice and a drizzle of green olive oil.

A heavier starter of pasta e fagiole aroused some controversy because my dining partner insisted that her New Jersey Italian mother never made it with potatoes; the hearty soup is even heartier here, its navy beans, pancetta, tomatoes, noodles, and greens amplified with cubed potatoes. If you've worked all day in the fields you might follow it with a baked pork cutlet doused in a terrifically pungent, spicy tomato sauce. Sauces in fact are a standout, maybe at their best in a brick-red number stocked with chopped beef and ladled over sausages and peppers. The best pastas I had were a bowl of penne with pancetta and caramelized onions for a luscious smoked flavor; and a plate of bosky porcini-stuffed ravioli.

I understand the kitchen is rather small here, which may account for the understated preparations. There are no grilled meats, no elaborate recipes such as osso buco, no expensive cuts like veal scaloppine. In four visits I saw nothing from either the Adriatic or the Pacific, other than a bottle of anchovies on the grocery cart. No matter. Piazza Italia satisfies something primal and basic--a hearty appetite and a longing for communal exuberance.