Fans of Barbara and Marco Martelli’s Marco Fire Island will be happy to know that the restaurant has relocated to a cozy West Village spot that’s seen more than its share of incarnations over the past decade. Fans of Sam DeMarco, who held court at this location first with Merge and then with DeMarco’s Room, will be confused to find a similar-sounding name for a completely different restaurant. Mrs. Martelli was already showing signs of nomenclature fatigue the night I dined there and heard her answer, again and again, the Marco-DeMarco connection questions with a sigh.

Apart from the name game, the restaurant has been totally redecorated by its new owners. The thick, high-gloss bar remains the same, but the shelves behind it and all of the walls have been brightened up. Along the banquettes up front and in the main dining room are abstract paintings by famed dancer Tommy Tune (who knew?). A turquoise drape cordons off an intimate backroom that will surely evolve into a VIP area – if it hasn’t already. That will depend on whether or not Marco breaks the curse of all the past restaurants here.

The menu is a large-format placard divided into mostly Italian categories (“antipasti,” “contorni,” “pasta,” etc.) along with the incongruous “entrees,” a French word that Americans misuse for main courses when it really means, well, antipasti. We began with a special cecci (chick pea) soup ($8) that was as good as any pasta e faggioli I’ve had in Florence. Mr. Martelli hails from Tuscany, so it’s not surprising to see this delicious classic of pasta ribbons and pureed beans done right. Well, almost right – it would have been improved by, and served in Tuscany with, a drizzle of olive oil.

Mussels Mediterranean-style were also quite good, steamed in a pool of marinara infused with garlic, basil, and oregano ($10). “Fritto Misto” ($11.50), the “fried everything” Italian classic, was also light and flavorful, consisting of fried calamari rings, zucchini sticks, and whole shrimp, and served with a spicy tomato puree. Traditional Florentine tripe ($10.50), sauteed with tomatoes and rosemary, was tender and light, with a beautiful earthiness under scored by a sprinkling of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

Pastas were above average across the board. Bucatini tubes were dressed in a traditional Tuscan pommarola marinara ($12), a lovely, herbaceous sauce that was lighter than expected. The rigatoni with Florentine meat sauce ($14) were excellent, the sauce so thick and reduced it clung to every tube of pasta. Homemade tagliolini ribbons ($17) were tossed expertly with a Sicilian pesto made with pistachios, along with fava beans, asparagus, and peas. The risotto of the day ($18), made with wild mushrooms, was fantastic, too, the rice cooked al dente and the mushroom flavor exquisite.

Essentially, I was impressed with practically every dish, until the “entrees” arrived. Chicken “boscaiola” ($16.50), a breast sauteed with mushrooms, black olives, and fresh tomatoes, lacked seasoning, as if not a drop of salt was used to prepare it, and the chicken was dry to boot. Cubes of wild boar ($20) – a Tuscan staple – could have been supermarket pork for all I could decipher. Though the meat was tender, it lacked depth of porky flavor, and was drowned in a brown sauce overpowered by juniper berries.

Baccala, or dried Norwegian codfish, braised with onions and tomatoes ($18.50), was simply dreadful, the fish flavorless and tough, served over a bed of mushy potatoes. And the tagliata, the traditional seared Florentine steak served sliced ($23) arrived tepid and drowned in a peppercorn sauce spiked with rosemary oil. Though the meat was tender, it was ruined by the sauce.

Desserts weren’t worth the calories save for the affogato, or drowned ice cream ($6), which the chef suggested on his way past our table. The scoop of vanilla ice cream is topped with hot espresso, making the ice cream melt just enough to form a creamy sort of caffe latté. When the regular espressos we ordered arrived without a proper crema on top and too much liquid in the cup, we sent them back for a redo. When the waiter brought them back looking perfect I exclaimed, “Bravo!” To which he replied, “I guess it makes a difference when you make them one at a time.” Indeed.