Where is it written that a suburban restaurant must serve safe, predictable dishes that are the culinary equivalent of a "top ten" list?

Nowhere. Certainly not on the menu of Babbo Bruno, a feisty new Webster Italian spot that does not assume its customers are interested only in fettuccine Alfredo with grilled chicken.

Serious eaters from Clear Lake to Baybrook to Friendswood should rejoice that this ambitious place has arrived in the neighborhood. There are still some rough edges at this early stage of the restaurant's life, but Genovese chef-owner Stefano Bertolotti and his Sicilian wife, Nella, have brought some badly needed gravitas to greater Houston's far-southeastern food scene.

Yes, he's that Bertolotti -- the guy whose restaurant just east of Kirby Drive won a low-key following in the 1980s. I remember liking Bertolotti's just fine, but it was not a place I craved when I was in a mood for Italian.

His latest venture -- which translates as "Daddy Bruno's," and which borrows a bit of glamour-by-association from Mario Batali's famous New York eatery, Babbo -- strikes me as far more appealing and self-assured than Bertolotti's.

Babbo Bruno looks as inviting as it smells, with fresh white linen set against walls painted in vibrant cinnabar and marine blue. There's a bustling display kitchen complete with wood-burning oven at the back; the oven adds singed overtones to the rich, garlicky aromas that perfume the room.

Just reading through the menu made my heart skip a little, rather than sinking into "been there, done that" despair. Bottarga, anchovy butter, quail, octopus, ravioli in a walnut sauce ... this was going to be fun.

And so it was, in large part. Bertolotti's current repertoire is especially strong in filled pastas, meat dishes and cream sauces unusual enough to convert a nonbeliever. His pastry chef is turning out some wonderful desserts.

Even his oblong plates, their corners curving upward, are fun -- for a moment.

The first time my knife slid down into the dish ... clank! ... after I had balanced it on one of those corners, I laughed. By the fourth or fifth time, I was less amused. Charlie Chaplin could have gotten a lot of mileage out of the scene; I just wanted to be able to eat my glorious little green beans sheened with garlic and tomato.

Then I wanted to pick up my knife -- my clean knife, not one coated in a winy sauce of butter and stock -- and slice off a hunk of papery, pounded veal bundled around a graceful artichoke filling. Food this good wants a plate on which form doesn't lead function around by the nose.

Pastas and entrees are the strong suits here. My personal battle plan at Babbo Bruno is to split one of the pastas to begin with: perhaps the opulent little tortelli envelopes filled with winter squash and crushed amaretto biscuits. The fact that they are moored in a bowlful of way too much thick, savory cream sauce did not impair my enjoyment of them in the least.

That's the weird thing: At Babbo Bruno, I find myself eating cream sauces and liking them, a rare occurrence. Tubes of penne with house-smoked salmon get a clever twist here: Ricotta cheese melts into a sumptuous sauce livened with just enough hot red pepper. It held my interest down to the last creamy bite.

So did the spinach-filled ravioli in cream thickened with ground walnuts, a dish in which the pasta sheets have a splendidly sturdy, homemade texture.

Even little ear-shaped discs (not the strozzapreti advertised on the menu), simply dressed with garlic and oil, turn individualistic when laced with crushed walnuts and grated bottarga, the dried caviar that imparts a subtle, oceanic twinge. If only the "rapini" specified on the menu really were; leafy broccoli raab would work far better in this dish than fat globes of broccoli, rapini's less-interesting cousin.

I admit I had doubts about a first-course special of snails in a saffron cream sauce. Surprise: The snails were tender, the sauce kept its place and an underlying slab of grilled bread was the perfect intermediary.

The octopus salad that had caught my eye? Not available the night I wanted it. A suggested substitute proved a mixed bag: Two nicely grilled shrimp on a wedge of garlic toast were overwhelmed by a pungent puddle of Gorgonzola cream. And $8.50 for two shrimp? (I'd rather spend the money on a big bowl of sautéed calamari in a red-peppery tomato bath.)

I can't say much, either, for the house-made mozzarella with roasted peppers, a relentlessly bland affair that cried out for a bit of vinegar, an edge of pepper, a crackle of sea salt -- something. Indeed, all the green salads here could use some livening up; the dressings seem to rely almost solely on olive oil.

Fortunately the rest of the food at Babbo Bruno tends to pop with flavor. Tiny, juicy quail sautéed in a balsamic-tinged sauce were tart and red-peppery, not overly sweet. A special of linguini with shrimp fra diavolo was devilishly (if not diabolically) hot.

A beautifully cooked fillet of red snapper, another special, came with a simple pan sauce that sang of garlic and fresh tomato. And if the seared snapper with anchovy butter sauce had been cooked less and served hot enough to melt its crown of sea-flavored butter, it would have been one swell dish.

But what was that browned mashed-potato log that came with it? The best Tator Tots in Harris County, that's what, speckled with prosciutto and onion inside.

Blips are more the rule here than glaring deficiencies. The nice, efficient service may trail off toward the end of a busy Saturday night. The all-Italian wine list could be a little more personal, a little less distributor-driven; and the red wines by the glass can seem exhausted, as if they have lingered too long in an opened bottle. (The crisp white Lacryma Christi, though, is a winner.)

Blips and all, Babbo Bruno has left me wanting more. There are dishes I still want to try (veal liver; lamb chops vinaigrette) and dishes I'll want to revisit. There are even desserts to dream about: a trembly, vanilla-specked panna cotta custard; a tall frozen dome of white-chocolate semifreddo; a magnificent parfait of fresh watermelon mixed with watermelon ice that is as original as any dessert in the city.

People from the surrounding Baybrook Mall and Friendswood area feel free to come as they are -- or aren't. I've seen baseball-capped guys in Ole Miss T-shirts drop in for a too-cheesy (but deliciously garlicked) pizza. I've seen big, festive family groups dressed in their Sunday best, and cooing couples out on heavy dates. They've all got one thing in common: They seem mighty happy to be here.