Now that Jeffery Chodorow has finally severed all ties with chef Rocco DiSpirito, he’s cast his net for another Italian chef to install in the giant space that he opened in fall 2000 as Tuscan Steak (emphasis on beef), which in early 2003 became just Tuscan (emphasis on chef Rocco DiSpirito’s Italian fare), and since February has been called English Is Italian (emphasis on chef Todd English’s Italian fare).Yes, you read right – Todd English – whose name doesn’t sound even remotely Italian, but who apparently had two grandparents from Calabria. On top of that, his Italian-American mother grew up on Arthur Avenue, which we all know is the real Little Italy. As former Mayor Koch would say, “Who knew?”

Mr. Chodorow obviously did, which is why he apparently decided to maintain the Italian theme here. Given that most restaurant names consist of one word these days – two maximum occasionally – the six-syllable moniker of this place is most certainly unusual. But so is the whole concept.

Messrs. English and Chodorow agreed that in order to adhere to Mr. English’s memories of long and leisurely family meals with a succession of courses of home cooked fare, the restaurant would forgo a formal menu and instead serve a parade of dishes, including antipasti, pasta, and meats, for one price: $39. Though dessert is not included, diners can ask for seconds and thirds of the prix-fixe items they like with abandon.

Mr. Chodorow, whose China Grill Management portfolio includes Ono at Hotel Gansevoort; China Grill NYC, Miami, Las Vegas, Chicago, and Mexico City; and Asia de Cuba at Morgans, among others, retained longtime design collaborator Jeffrey Beers to revamp the 4,500-square-foot restaurant that seats 160. Though the space doesn’t look drastically different than it did as Tuscan (or Tuscan Steak, for that matter), the first-floor columns are now covered with wood, leather, and mirrors, creating a warmer look and feel. Also, there’s a new wine cellar in the basement that seats 80 and has its own bar. Be warned, however, that though the restrooms have separate entrances for men and women, they share a quasi-open sink area, allowing conversations from both sides to be heard.

Mr. English, who will remain executive chef at Olives at the W Hotel on Union Square, has installed executive chef Angus MacDonald to run the show when he’s downtown. Which is why I was surprised to find Mr. English working the floor one night recently, greeting guests, flirting (of course), and finishing dishes at tableside. It would be downright naive to think that the celebrity chef will be on hand often, given his expansive restaurant empire of Olives and Figs all over the place, but it was reassuring to see him working so hard at his newest offspring.

If you find yourself having a drink at the bar before dinner, you’ll be pleasantly surprised to find complimentary pizza being passed out on a wooden peel, in a continuous wave, with a variety of toppings, including classic Margherita (mozzarella, tomato, basil), prosciutto, mushrooms, sausage, etc. Most of them were thin crusted and crisp, and a tempting way to ruin the generous meal to come.

Once seated, we were handed what have to be the largest non-menus ever written. Indeed, the 11-by-17-inch sheets contain little more than a testimony about Mr. English’s lineage and how eating here should be “just like my family used to – no menus, just lots of great homemade dishes served without your having to order a thing. As much or as little as you want. Often more than you can possibly eat, and always of the highest quality.” The menu also says there are three guidelines to enjoying your English Is Italian experience: 1. The meal is divided into three courses for $39 a person; 2. Extras are listed as supplements; and 3. Buon Appetito.

Four supplements were available one night, the most interesting of which were the broccoli di rape sauteed with garlic ($8), which was excellent, and the fresh mozzarella prepared at tableside ($15).

Chef English himself rolled a gueridon toward our table to prepare the cheese, causing diners nearby to look over excitedly. As the chef dropped the curd into a bowl of hot water he explained that it was from a farm in Vermont and exceptionally fresh. After he massaged the curd into a ball, he pulled it out of the water and placed it on a cutting board to rest while he then began sauteing oyster mushrooms (they were out of porcini that night) in olive oil, followed by chopped tomatoes and a pinch of thyme and oregano. After the sauce was complete, the chef worked the still-warm mozzarella until it was a flat circle, put it on a plate, and then covered it with the savory sauce. While I think the presentation was beautiful – especially the making of the cheese at tableside – the sauce overwhelmed the delicate flavor of that super-fresh curd. I wished that the cheese had been served by itself, perhaps with just some coarse salt and extra virgin olive oil. Still, it was an impressive feat and a bit of dinner theater that we never expected.

Meanwhile, the table began filling up with plates. A trio of toppings came heaped on a plate called “deconstructed crostini,” which was basically toasted Italian bread slices served alongside – instead of under – a rosemary-scented white-bean puree, a mound of chicken liver mousse, and the traditional chopped tomato and basil combination. All three were packed with flavor.

A plate of delicious salumi went down next, featuring slices of bresaola (cured beef), capicola (cured pork), pepperoni, speck (smoked ham), mortadella (the real bologna), and smoked cured pork loin. Tiny fried rice ball arancini and identical cod fritters were next, which we popped into our mouths happily. These were followed by a cast-iron skillet filled with sauteed asparagus topped with a slightly over-fried egg. A wonderful caponata made with cauliflower and golden raisins tasted like I remember it in Sicily. Charred artichokes stewed and pureed with Italian bread was a clever play on the classic papa al pomodoro, made with tomatoes. And just when we thought there wasn’t any more room on the table, they squeezed in a tasty plate of fennel stewed with onions and potatoes.

Next came the pasta dishes, served from sleek white tureens that my grandmother would probably deem too modern and cold. Butternut squash-filled agnolotti (stuffed half-moons) were sweet and tender. Ricotta filled mezzaluna (which means half-moon, but these looked like round ravioli) were dressed deftly with a fabulously hearty ragout of beef. Ricotta gnocchi, which were light as cotton balls, were tossed with a sweet, fennel-scented sausage ragout. Finally, tagliatelle – thin, almost see-through egg noodles – tossed with butter, were ceremonially buried with white truffle shavings (which in a place like Beppe would cost almost as much as the whole prix fixe!).

After eating all of that pasta (which my Sicilian wife would say was a classic American mistake), the meats and fish seemed like overkill. Still, the whole-roasted branzino, served on the bone, was magnificent to behold – and taste. Stuffed with herbs and drizzled with fruity olive oil, it was perfectly moist and delicious. Braised veal shank was fork-tender and served with sweet roasted fennel and a saffron glaze. And a whole boneless duck stuffed with pork, veal, rice, and whole duck eggs was both beautiful and delectable.

Dessert is not included, but in the name of reporting, I forced myself to try the fabulous fried zeppole ($4), the nutty amaretto seimifreddo ($7) served with a roasted pineapple fritter, and the heady hazelnut-chocolate bombe made with Gianduja chocolate and a hazelnut brittle. They were totally overindulgent – that’s what grandmothers like Todd English’s do.

English Is Italian, 622 Third Ave., at 40th St., 212-404-1700.