Whatever that magical, elusive quality is that native Italians often strike when bringing together tomatoes, herbs and olive oil, Francesco Basile of Antica Trattoria hits the mark with astounding precision.

After years of noodling through San Diego’s sorry array of mediocre Italian restaurants, it’s rather surprising that a restaurant located in a La Mesa strip plaza is where I’ve finally landed upon meals kissed with all the passion and simplicity common to family dinner tables in Italy. Or if you grew up with immigrant Italian grandparents, who stubbornly eschewed culinary experimentation in lieu of sticking to the basics, you’ll feel right at home forking through Basile’s comforting brand of cooking.

The Sicilian-born chef-owner restores balance to pasta and protein dishes, allowing every ingredient to spring forth equally without one flavor dominating the other. He shatters our assumption, for example, that Italian food is based on copious amounts of garlic.

“Where I come from, we just crush the garlic, put it in the olive oil for a little bit, and then throw it out,” he proclaims.

In the case of pasta carbonara, a traditional 20th Century dish using pork cheek (guanciale), Basile shakes his head at the garlicky, cream-based American version, calling it “an insult.” Offered occasionally as a special, he also omits the peas (another no-no ingredient) and simply tosses the pasta with the pork, egg yolks, Parmesan cheese and black pepper.

If intuition is the critical technique for removing the indignities from bastardized Italian cuisine, Basile applies an incredible sixth sense to achieve that goal, beginning with his homemade table bread that is both airy and crusty, like what I remember eating from Italian neighborhood bakeries throughout the Northeast.

Smooth and sweet best describe Melenzane al Caprino, a rustic-style antipasti consisting of grilled, thin eggplant slices, chopped tomatoes, basil, olive oil and crostini smeared with luscious mascarpone cheese. And the addition of red bell pepper in Basile’s caprese, along with quality oil and balsamic, nudges this common dish out of its doldrums, adding a burst of springtime freshness to the scheme.

Sampling from the pasta category, I echoed my companion’s sentiments when he effused, “I haven’t had Italian food like this in a long time,” referring to his years spent living in San Francisco and growing up with decent Italian cooking on his mother’s side.

Penne alla Norma, for instance, involved eggplant that was seemingly melted into the pasta tubes along with whispers of mozzarella, garlic and tomato sauce. The dish tasted like my grandmother’s kitchen used to smell when she’d crank out homemade pasta dishes with slow-cooked sauce every Sunday.

Other recommended picks are farfalle al portobello – bowties tossed with the grilled mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, asparagus and brandy-cream sauce. The flavors poke and prod the taste buds in such a balanced fashion, that you’ll be rendered speechless, much like the fettuccine all’ Antica, which involves a sauce of veal stock, sherry and sun-dried tomatoes clinging ever so lovingly to thin, lightweight strands of pasta. Pieces of lean sausage strewn judiciously throughout the dish add heartiness.

Pork never tasted so good until I tried Basile’s “maiale alla Piemontese” from the menu’s I Secondi section, where you’ll also find lots of traditional veal dishes and titillating preparations of seafood. I’m normally not a fan of fruit mixed with savory ingredients, but the combination of apples, herbs, black peppercorns and Borolo wine put these grilled pork medallions in a league of their own, giving them a rustic, semi-sour flavor that had me practically dancing in my seat.

The apples tasted bright and tangy; their sweetness offset by rosemary and stock, sparing them from qualifying for apple pie as I’ve witnessed in other pork-apple combos elsewhere. Just as with garlic, I trusted that Basile would also prevent sugar from overtaking his dishes.

Which brings me to our dessert course, a superior cannoli boasting a delicate, crunchy pastry shell that didn’t seem more than a few hours old. It came filled with politely sweetened ricotta and micro bits of chocolate, beating out every cannoli I’ve ever purchased in Little Italy.

Basile’s decision to open his fresco-adorned restaurant in La Mesa several years ago came about because “the price was right,” he says. By the end of our dinner, we came away applauding the off-the-beaten-track location. Downtown and Hillcrest breed slapdash dining. And this food is just too precious to risk getting run over by fast stampedes.