The Italian-American hoagie haven may have moved into the home of the old Robin Inn on Park Avenue, but new owners James Kohler and Mike Epps have done well to preserve the finished-basement-circa-1960s look. But the restaurant’s heart, without a doubt, lies in Philly where Kohler used to live and the ‘burbs of South Jersey. This devotion is captured by a menu that practically worships the fully-stuffed loaves of that region.

While most neighborhood restaurants take years to mature into their identities and develop enough rapport and goodwill with local diners to earn the right to their title, Kohler and Epps have managed to build a joint that was, essentially, turnkey ready.

With Eagles jerseys mounted above the bar and framed celebrity photos on the walls, this Philly-inspired setup seems to have found its place in Richmond in a short period of time. Stanley’s patrons make themselves right at home here, oftentimes in nothing dressier than a hoodie and sweatpants. The beanie-wearing waitstaff who take their orders are equally lowkey and unpretentious.

Then there’s the food. Timeless, affordable and broadly appealing; the restaurant’s menu of sub-shop standards has all the qualities that make coming here week in, week out eminently doable.

But underneath this approachable façade, something greater is going on than meets the eye. Much like the plot of “The Bear,” the dining dramedy set in a Chi-town beef shop, the Stanley’s gang, many of whom come from fine dining stock, have funneled all their talent into the art of hoagie-making, disguising their finesse and training with the unfussiness of seeded bread, meat and cheese wrapped in foil.

Close observers of Richmond dining know Kohler as the former co-owner of Brenner Pass and Black Lodge, and Epps as one of the brashly creative minds behind Cobra Burger. In the kitchen, they’ve brought on the likes of Saison’s former executive chef Marc Rhodes and Carson Bledsoe and Aura Fessler from Metzger Bar & Butchery.

When you get a group like this together, nothing is ever as basic as it seems. The antipasti platter ($18) that arrives, as you’re settling into that bar stool or pizza parlor banquette, is impressively curated and a far cry from the spread found at potlucks drizzled in a cheap balsamic.

Alongside the usual mozz balls and marinated artichokes are turmeric-stained florets of pickled cauliflower, olives perfumed with fennel, piquant pepperoncini peppers downright “dirty” enough for a good martini and slivers of mellow manchego. Next to them, lush, fat-speckled mortadella rolled into cornets and crumpled rags of capicola, an Italian-style ham cured and dyed neon red with chiles.

Diners themselves won’t think twice about it, but a lot of thought has gone into selecting this slate of cocktail-hour noshes, ensuring that each one enhances the next and that they, collectively, hit all corners of your tongue with acidity, heat, salt and fat. And that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? To make the effort feel effortless.

You’ll think you’ve seen everything a wedge salad can do, but the Stanley’s version ($12) is not to be underestimated. In fact, it’s the dish most likely to keep me coming back for more. While I’ve always loved the lowbrow luxury of a salad that is far too large and dressy to be healthy for you, theirs is a cut above. Beefy hunks of iceberg, each one eclipsing half a dinner plate, are thickly basted in lemony ranch and larded with bacon and blue cheese crumbles. It takes a steak knife just to saw through all that decadently fresh foliage.

Depending on your level of cheesesteak savvy, the ones at Stanley’s may feel different, but in a good way. Those who, like myself, have only been exposed to the old South Philly spots like Pat’s and Geno’s should prepare to be schooled by the folks at Stanley’s who’ve clearly done their homework.

Soft, plain rolls are out; hard, seeded ones, with more of a baguette-like finish, are in. Thin shavings of ribeye, out; heftier, choppier cuts, in. Cartoonish cheese in a can, out; a mature and suavely cheddary American, known as Cooper Sharp, in.

The Stanley’s crew tracks this trend with theirs ($16), while elaborating on it as well. Between layers of cheese, melted down into a gooey alloy that richly coats every square inch of meat, they’ve interspersed pickled hot and sweet peppers, staccatos of vinegary heat to break up the heavier notes of the sandwich. The whole thing is a tightrope walk of textures and flavors over hard-baked hoagie bread.

Even more creative license is taken with the chicken cheesesteak ($16), which is decidedly lighter on its feet than the beefy version. Warming spices in the marinade, such as cumin, combined with a flourish of lettuce and onion, give it a fresh taco salad-on-a-bun vibe.

There’s one small problem, though, with switching from a plushier roll to a crustier, chewier one: it doesn’t always complement a sandwich with crunchier toppings. It works as the sturdy base for fondue-y beer cheese and dijon-y mayo, a swaddle of creaminess that rounds out the hoagie stuffed with an Alpine blend of sausage and softly-braised cabbage ($16).

It works less well as the foil for a traditional Italian hoagie ($16), filled with big, crisp bushels of shredduce. Inlaid with cold-cut meats and provolone, the flavors are all there, along with a refined dash of imported oregano. But mine, at least, would’ve been a better balanced bite if it were more heavily padded in silky sliced salumi. And personally, though I know it’s debatable, I could do without mayo. The delicious dissonance of oil and vinegar is really what draws me to this sandwich variety, and too much of the emulsified stuff only serves to negate it.

For the tomato pie ($6), the carb of choice is a delightfully spongier, dimpled focaccia bread, the bottom of which gets a nice sheen of olive oil, its edges crisped up like a pan pizza. Though the bake on this dough can, at times, be uneven, the tomato sauce, concentrated and sweet and spread as evenly as jam on toast with a grating of parm, results in satisfying simplicity.

All this begs the question: what makes something a “neighborhood restaurant” anyway? Nailing down a single definition is difficult. But whatever criteria you use to assess yours, Stanley’s certainly checks a lot of boxes.

Ending one’s meal on a humble piece of pie, the only food offering that ever changes from day to day, feels appropriate for the setting. There’s an unmistakable universality to pie as a dessert. Whether it be a lattice-crusted slice of apple pie a la mode that brings out all of the fruit’s natural flavors, or a key lime pie, citrus-zesty and bright with a buttery-crumb crust ($6), it’s a form of comfort anyone, anytime, anywhere can appreciate. And at Stanley’s, that’s truly their sweet spot.