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In a building
as squat as its namesake, DeVito nonetheless packs a powerful
punch. From its palm-tree shrouded entrance on lower Ocean Drive
(in the uber-glam South of Fifth nabe), past the maitre d’s station
on the semi-enclosed and pleasantly secluded loggia, and then up a
narrow flight of stairs, there’s the sense of entering a sanctum
sanctorum of Italian dining: a little bit of the original uptown
Rao’s—or a social club down around Mott Street (or, for that matter,
old Miami Beach). It’s the kind of place where you expect to hear
“Volare”—and you will, along with Lou Rawls and Marvin Gaye and any
other hipster soul singer you might associate with a Martin Scorsese
soundtrack.
Upstairs, the
dining room is outfitted with white tufted leather chairs and
banquettes, combined with marble-topped tables and cranberry
glassware. Red, black and white—the colors of film stock and
bloodshed (and Italian neo-realist cinema). On the walls hang dark
gilt wood frames encasing plasma televisions playing the films of
Danny DeVito—as well as an endless loop of one of those gas-fueled
fireplaces (because, this being Miami—and a Hollywood restaurant—who
needs the real thing?).
There’s a
large glass-covered porthole in the floor, from which hangs a red
chandelier endlessly shivering over the people below. Over in one
corner of the upstairs room is a table of nine women of the sort
most often associated with the
South Beach
lifestyle: perfect everything, from head to toe. Seated behind us,
there’s a circa 1987 Madonna-look-alike—pulling listlessly on a huge
cone of pink cotton candy which has just alighted on her table like
the Hindenburg.
The food is
fun—and there’s plenty of it. As soon as you’re seated, a waiter
deposits a wooden palette filled with les amuse-bouche: an oversized
parmesan-sprinkled popover with a tureen of salted butter and fried
zucchini chips as well as a stuffed pepper and a slice of
soppressata. Already, there’s enough food here for a picnic at the
beach.
The martini
arrives in a glass so chilled that slivers of ice slide down its
side—a touch that somehow signals you’re in good hands. The hands
of people who know how to eat—and drink.
For an
antipasto, there’s arancini di riso (three for thirteen dollars—no
one ever said Hollywood Italian gangster glam was cheap). Floating
on a spicy San Marzano puree, these portobello risotto mozzarella
bocconcini are the sort of delectables that can fuel your gustatory
dreams—or nightmares, if you eat too many.
Following
that, you might lower your heartbeat a bit with an insalata della
casa, accompanied by the tiniest and freshest of Tuscan beans doused
in a Pinot Grigio vinaigrette. As for pasta, there’s trenne al
telefono, a triangular-cut penne, slathered with bufala mozzarella,
basil, toasted garlic—and yes, of course, thankfully, more of those
San Marzano tomatoes. Dessert proves equally indulgent: a budino, a
kind of deconstructed bread pudding, served around a scoop of
caramel gelato and topped with a praline, all floating atop a
blackberry and lemon coulis.
Eating like
this might have you wondering how DeVito’s could be so successful in
such a body-conscious setting as South Beach—but as Danny himself
might say, everything in moderation—even moderation. A night at
DeVito is why you work out all week—so why not bring on another
plate of those arancini—and another budino as well. Molto bene,
baby; molto bene.
Best always,
Mark and Robert
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