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It’s always slightly strange when you hear a familiar song in a different language. I’m humming along to I’m a Believer, made famous by The Monkees, but this version is Sono Bugiarda by Caterina Caselli, sung in Italian.

Apart from being ineffably cool, it’s also a very good introduction to Neptune’s Grotto, a romantically dark subterranean restaurant that says it’s all about northern Italian classics, but actually sings them in another language entirely. Its own.

This is a signature move from the team behind Bistro 916 (now closed), Pellegrino 2000, and Clam Bar, situated one floor above. Wine chap Andy Tyson and chefs Dan Pepperell and Mikey Clift like to lay it on thick (their door handle is a brass seahorse), but this is hectic.

It’s like a very loud, nonstop party played out in a series of candlelit, half-moon booths, with a life-sized, classical statue of Neptune, the Roman god of the sea, presiding. Never mind that he looks like a margarine sculpture, he’s still impressive.

I’ve dubbed chef Dan Pepperell Mr Twisty before, for taking what we know and giving it a culinary spin.

It’s so Old Hollywood, I’m expecting Gina Lollobrigida and Dean Martin any minute. She’d love the tortoiseshell-clad pillars, zebra-print carpet, and walls panelled with sybaritic scenes of eating and drinking. He’d love the mini martinis and Barolo Bombardier cocktails at the long bar, and Tyson’s devotion to nebbiolo and chianti.

I’ve dubbed chef Dan Pepperell Mr Twisty before, for taking what we know and giving it a culinary spin. Using schmaltz (rendered chicken fat) in the traditional chicken liver crostini ($18) is a great little twist, resulting in a few ridiculously rich bites on almost chewy bread, fried in chicken fat. Bloody love it.

Instead of a trad vitello tonnato with tuna sauce, there’s a smoky vitello anguillato ($28), a lush, creamy smoked eel mayonnaise (remember the one at Bistro 916 with the crumbed brains?) spiked with crunchy deep-fried capers, over paper-thin slices of poached veal girello.

The tuna turns up in caponata instead, as fresh crudo furled around a fruity chip-chop of smoked eggplant, intense tomatoes, pickled celery, olives and capers.

If you go for the platter of finely shaved salumi ($36), add on a grandma slice ($10) straight from New York’s Little Italy; a gnarly, slow-baked, sugo-topped focaccia that tastes like something dug from the ruins of Pompeii.

The candles stuck in chianti flasks might suggest a casual approach to wine, but you can dive deep, from a dandelion amaro to barolos from some of the great barolisti, such as Bartolo Mascarello, whose 2017 magnum is listed at $2400.

I’m told the smart money is on the tortelloni ($40), and it’s a fine dish of plump little green pasta packages of ricotta, artichoke, parmesan and truffle squatting in hazelnut-scented burnt butter sauce. But it’s no match for the rich strands of tajarin ($39), a northern Italian pasta made with extra egg yolk that has been teamed, contrarily, with a fresh-tasting pomodoro sauce from the south. The tajarin may be affronted by this, but diners won’t be.

Too often, cotoletta alla Milanese proves little more than the fact that people will eat anything as long as it is crumbed. Ah, but this one ($54) is thick, so you get to taste the tender meat, cooked on the bone, and not just the crunch of the crust. Squeeze lemon over it, and it sings.

You could team it with cavolo nero ($15) but it’s too intense with anchovy, so maybe head for a lovely tower of soft butter lettuce ($16) instead. After that, it feels right to keep things straight and simple, with a little stainless-steel coupe of stunningly sharp lemon gelato topped with lychee and ginger sorbet ($14).

Italy’s greatest hits are so popular around the world, they can either be reduced to banal cliches, or played with until barely recognisable. This is an affectionate and masterly return to the classics; a bright, fresh, romanticised remix that makes you listen more closely. Yes, I’m a believer.