With its superb food, Lawrence's Genovese reclaims a notorious Italian name

Now that a single gallon of gas costs nearly as much as a pack of cigarettes, a 12-ounce can of Red Bull or a box of Purina dog treats, friends of mine refuse to drive long distances to go out to eat. Even adventurous souls who didn't think twice about traveling as far north as Liberty or way out south to Olathe for a meal are singing a different tune: "Can't you think of a new restaurant closer to my house?"

Well, yes. But sometimes one has to venture outside one's comfort zone — or at least I do. I love driving to Lawrence for a little gastronomic getaway that includes eating several pastries at WheatFields Bakery & Café, then making a mad dash into Brits for a few Cadbury chocolate bars and a bag of Mint Humbugs. After a brisk walk up and down Massachusetts, I'm ready for some serious eating.

My new favorite joint on this lively street is Genovese Italian Restaurant, a 10-month-old bistro owned by Subarna Bhattachan and Alejandro Lule — proprietors of Lawrence's popular La Parilla and Zen Zero dining spots — and Mexican-born chef Armando Paniagua. It's located in the three-story building that for more than two decades was home to the Mass Street Deli. I mention the three floors because, on one of my visits, I had to haul my weary ass up two long flights of stairs to sit in the lovely, airy third-story space that has two sets of French doors opening onto a small balcony with two small tables. On that night, my friend Carol Ann and I opted to dine at a table near the doors but not on the balcony. Don't get me wrong — I'm all for al fresco dining on a balmy spring night. But dainty, narrow balconies have given me the whim-whams since I saw Vertigo. (Genovese has a fenced-off sidewalk patio, too, but it was full that night.)

Carol Ann and I are former servers, so we cringed at the idea of having to run up and down all those stairs to pick up and carry plates from the first-floor kitchen. As unbelievable as it sounds, there's no elevator or dumbwaiter to the upper floors.

"I don't mind," our cheery server Carlos said as he set a plate of soft focaccia in front of us, and then a tiny little dish of olives, green beans and chopped carrots marinated in olive oil, anise and rosemary. "It's good exercise, as long as you wear the right shoes."

Well, he had the right attitude as well as the right shoes. I experienced really exceptional service on both of my visits to Genovese, so running up and down stairs must not intimidate potential servers.

The restaurant's name must not be a problem, either. Until recently, when I heard the word Genovese, I thought of only two things: the infamous mob family of New York City and the still-notorious Kitty Genovese case of 1964, when an entire Queens neighborhood heard the murder victim screaming for help — and did nothing.

But like Bhattachan and Lule's restaurant Zen Zero (zenzero is the Italian word for ginger), the newer venue is named for an herb: Ocimum basilicum Genovese, or sweet Genovese basil. I'm told it's the best basil for making pesto.

"I had never heard of the Genovese crime family," Bhattachan told me later, "until our lawyers did a Google search on the name and all these references popped up."

Those references didn't inspire chef Paniagua to add "Lucky Luciano" lamb or "Fat Tony" Salerno spaghetti to the menu — and he didn't need to, because his mix of traditional and inventive Italian fare is interesting on its own. And the prices are modest enough that it's possible to sample quite a few things without breaking the banca. Carol Ann, for example, wanted to try the grilled octopus as a starter, while I was eager to taste the crispy zucchini chips — so we ordered both. I'm not typically a fan of grilled octopus because it's so frequently rubbery and tough. But at Genovese, the warm, bite-sized bits are tender, succulent and tossed with spicy arugula, shaved fennel, soft white beans and a splash of lemon juice. Carol Ann raved about them. Even better were the feather-light zucchini crisps, made from paper-thin slices of zucchini dusted with flour and salt and flash fried. Not a bit greasy and lighter than air. "You don't feel a bit guilty eating them," Carol Ann said. I know I didn't.