A willingness to experiment is a fine thing in a chef, even if a few chefs, too eager to share their experiments’ indifferent results, sometimes give it a bad name. But without that inventive spirit, we’d be without a lot of good restaurants, including Matilda, which opened recently in the East Village.

Matilda is the creation of chef Esteban Molina and his wife Maristella Innocenti. The restaurant — named after their daughter — is a tribute to their partnership and a test of how comfortably his Mexican culinary heritage can meld with her Italian one. The menu, a macaronic patchwork of “Tosc-Mex” dishes such as prosciutto quesadillas and basil guacamole, reads like an amusingly misguided recipe for failure, but the fusion is pulled off with surprising finesse.

The guacamole ($8) is bland and unhelpfully studded with roasted red peppers, but a trio of tacos alla Fiorentina ($10) is delicious, their soft, warm tortillas filled with cubes of good, rare-centered steak strongly seasoned not with lime and garlic but with rosemary and olive oil, and topped with crystalline shreds of shaved hard cheese. A choice of quesadillas (each $9) includes fillings of garlic-sautéed chard or scallops as well as the successful oozing concoction of hot mozzarella and strong, tangy prosciutto. No matter how steeped in the traditions of the component cuisines the eater may be, it’s gratifyingly easy to suspend expectations and enjoy the unfamiliar but likable juxtapositions.

Even shared, Matilda’s sprightly version of fritto misto ($12) is a mammoth starter, with crisp-battered seafood and vegetables piled as high as the plate will bear. The mix includes not just the usual calamari rings and succulent shrimps but also moist, meaty slivers of chayote squash and poblano pepper, with a pair of sauces, one pineapple and one chipotle cream, for dipping.

Pasta choices are less aggressively hybridized: A brimming bowl of pappardelle ($15) with herb-scented oxtail ragu, for instance, tastes wholly of the Old World. Delicious as it is, a dense, savory heap of beef and noodles, it can be a bit of a letdown after one has gotten used to the invigorating complexity of many dishes here. A plate of spaghetti crammed with clams ($14) may have nuances of flavor in its juicy, beer-tinged sauce, but they’re obliterated by a sinus-clearing jolt of habanero that builds, bite after bite, to a palate-monopolizing burn. (Dishes are rated for spiciness, quite accurately, on a scale of zero to three peppers.)

Almost every plate here is overfilled, so plan to order sparingly or waddle home. A giant lamb shank ($21), unusually lean and braised to within an inch of its integrity, gets a pork-like treatment: a vivid barbacoa-style chipotle-orange glaze that very effectively mitigates the heaviness of the meat. Who knew lamb and sweet oranges got on so well together? Its bed of garlic-sautéed broccoli rabe feels like a visitor from a different dish, perfectly tasty but not allied with the lamb. Chorizo is spicy and savory enough to typically be the star of any dish it appears in, but in a preparation all’uccelletto, it takes a backseat to a bed of remarkably deep-flavored beans, stewed in garlicky, herby tomato sauce that penetrates to their hearts. The beans are available on their own as a side dish, and they’re just as good in that context.

Matilda serves quarter- and half-carafes of Chianti and merlot, along with a generous wealth of Italian bottles. Sticky-sweet, slushy red sangria ($7 for a tall glass) pairs uncommonly poorly with the complexities of the cooking, but it makes a refreshing dessert — better than the housemade gelati ($6). I tried the “orange panna cotta” flavor of the latter, which had a bizarre snowy, powdery consistency, far from the hoped-for creaminess. Fresh, piping hot churros ($7) have a homemade charm, misshapen, with a moist, eggy dough and minimal sweetness.

The divided room feels strangely overdesigned for such a casual spot: a mosaic of food words wrapping around one wall, slots carved into each table that hold dessert menus, and big, hot pink, metal letters reading M-A-T-I-L-D-A spaced at eye level across the façade. But that incongruity, like the others, only adds to the homespun appeal.

Matilda (647 E. 11th St., between avenues B and C, 212-777-3355).