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There are sounds you want to hear when you open the door to Caterina’s, a basement Italian restaurant in the city that will celebrate 30 years in October. Glasses clinking, people chatting, cutlery rat-a-tatting, laughter rippling through the room like a Mexican wave: these are good noises.

But when owner Caterina Borsato walked into her dining room one morning last May, all she heard was squelching. A burst water main had flooded the restaurant, requiring an energy-sapping, soul-searching, seven-month rebuild.

This was my first visit to Caterina’s since the Big Wet and I admit to nervousness. Would it still feel right? Quickly, the answer became clear: yes, and then some.

Most of the furniture was salvaged, terrazzo was discovered under sodden carpet, and a vintage credenza holds decanters and curios. Lamplit, mirrored and framed by timber beams, this is a collector’s den, every object with a story.

Over many years and many visits, the abiding sensation of dining at Caterina’s has been of being a happy cog in a brilliant machine, welcomed, coddled, sated and released into the world heavier of belly, lighter of pocket, suffused with joy.

It’s an Italian thing: awe for the seasons, humble ingredients treated like rare silk, Borsato herself rattling off a dozen daily specials at your antique, marble-topped table, the words washing over you in a poetry of “casarecce” (twirly pasta), “coniglio” (rabbit) and “crudo” (raw). You remember what sounds most delicious, and most manageable, in the moment.

Since Caterina’s opened in 1995, chefs have somehow turned into celebrities. Not here. Marcello Mariani has been cooking here for eight years in a kitchen that’s invisible to the dining room. A northerner inspired by all parts of Italy, he’s a wonderful first violin for conductor Caterina, crafting everything from scratch, finding the balance between technique and touch.

Salt cod is softened with milk, infused with bay leaves and then whipped with olive oil for piling onto bread: start there. His vitello tonnato pulls an Italian staple from the sea of ubiquity and reminds you why the combination of veal, tuna and capers actually works. There’s always raw, sliced, dressed fish, maybe goldband snapper with a trifecta of citruses, tempered by persimmon sauce. Slow-cooked, tender duck leg is torn through a rich spinach and herb sauce that clings to short, twirled pasta.

There’s always rabbit. This time, it’s on the bone in a light, white-wine braise rounded out with onion, green olives, garlic and butter. You might have it layered with chestnuts between crepes or rolled with prosciutto. What tasty, versatile meat, and how good to see it honoured.

When hazelnuts come in, straight from the farmer, the dessert specials tend to star gianduja, a blend of chocolate and hazelnut butter. I had it piped into a delicate, chocolate-tart shell lidded with a pretty lattice of shaved rhubarb.

“You’ll be released into the world heavier of belly, lighter of pocket, suffused with joy.”

People eat properly here; they also tend to drink. The wine list is a life’s work, with interesting drinking by the glass from Italy and elsewhere; well-priced, food-friendly bottles from near and far and a connoisseur’s collection of bubbles, burgundy and barolo for when you really want to push the boat out.

It’s a truism to say that this legal-district hideout is a power-lunch hub, but Melbourne has changed immeasurably over the restaurant’s lifetime, and the often-white, older, male clientele at Caterina’s, while still moneyed and connected, is something of a hold-out as the city skews younger and more diverse. That doesn’t make this any less of a great restaurant: Caterina’s is consistent and confident, executing its mission every day with passion and conviction. I hope I’ll be pushing through this door for decades to come.

Good Food reviews are booked anonymously and paid independently. A restaurant can’t pay for a review or inclusion in the Good Food Guide.