When the moon hits your eyes like a big pizza pie

La Stanza Diva Fiorentino
315 Main St
Woburn, MA 01801
781-935-3088

“Oh, but you must have some wine.” Her tone was one of grave concern, and the look on her face matched it perfectly. “I’ll see what I can find.”

The hostess at La Stanza Diva Fiorentino bustled away purposefully, and within minutes had returned with two magnum-sized bottles of red wine. “Which would you like?”

“Chianti.” I said, and she smiled as though I had given the right answer, as she filled my glass. Neither of my dining companions that night wanted any wine, and the hostess seemed disappointed. But she brightened almost immediately, and shot me a conspiratorial look. “I’ll just pour another one for you, then, just in case you want more.” It was as if she believed that you should never pour just one drink.

We were at La Stanza Diva Fiorentino, a home-style Italian restaurant nestled in the sleepy Boston suburb of Woburn, MA. The place was BYOB, and does not serve alcohol. I had been lucky that night: there had been a large group present as part of a wedding rehearsal that was winding down, and plenty of unfinished bottles of wine calling out to be drunk, as I was calling out to drink them.

La Stanza Diva is housed in an unassuming brick building, marked from the outside by only its green awning. But once you step inside, though, there is nothing in the restaurant that does not reach out to you. The interior of the restaurant is cavernous and poorly lit, but somehow comforting and welcoming. Home Goods decorations and all manner of baubles and knick-knacks adorn every corner, with no discernible theme – it is like the house of your middle school best friend with the crazy mother with the Zimbabwean horse sculpture thing at the door, where you used to hang out after school. It is kitschy, zany, cluttered, yet at the same time just plain fun.

The menu is made up of disparate photocopied handwritten sheets, stapled together and dog-eared at the corners, the dishes spelled out in a hand that is almost child-like. Yet it is so much fun thumbing through the many sheets – I doubt I have enjoyed myself as much looking through a menu anywhere else. There is all manner of foods available – the classic Italian staples, as well as more exotic game such as alligator and kangaroo and frogs’ legs. I am tempted to try these, but the whole reason for our going there was my craving for Italian, so I settle for a more conservative choice of veal scaloppini. We order calamari for the table to share, and settle back to take in the surroundings.

The restaurant seems a firm believer that one should never take oneself too seriously. In addition to the décor, it was also playing the soundtrack to the Godfather in the background. Whether or not that was done with a touch of irony, I shall never know. It was almost too much – without being so. Come to think of it, the few patrons that were scattered in pockets around the restaurant when we walked in had eyed us with a wary look of suspicion, almost Mafioso-like in its distrust. If there had been any way to be more conspicuous as out-of-towners, I did not know it.

But once the food arrived my edginess disappeared, and I began – as I am wont to do while eating – to become chattier. Perhaps it was the wine, but I like to think it was the enjoyment of simple, homestyle Italian done well. The calamari was lightly breaded and fried for just the right amount of time so that the squid was still juicy and springy when bit into. The marinara dipping sauce had milk in it, which balanced the acidity of the tomatoes perfectly and made for a sweet and tangy complement to the calamari. It was textbook Italian, and I was loving it.

I had balked a little earlier at the prices listed on the menu, but once the entrées arrived I understood completely. The portions were huge, almost enough for two meals, and were served with a side (!) of spaghetti and meatballs. This was Italian done in the good old days where everyone ate as if it were their last meal, and stayed at the table for hours on end, and nobody left the table anything but completely, utterly and absolutely stuffed. Indeed, there were at least two tables there that had looked as though they were finished with their meals when we sat down to eat, yet had not left when we got up to go.

My veal came done in a rich, brown sauce cooked down to a perfectly nappe consistency, with a hint of sherry. I felt it almost criminal to leave half of the food on the plate, but in my defence I also got further than any of the others at the table. The waitress smiled beatifically – at me, I like to think – when she came by at the end of our meal; I wondered if she was proud of our veritable showings in polishing off whatever had been put in front of us, or merely laughing inside at the pathetic futility of our efforts.

I am a fan of heavy dinners rather than heavy lunches, and I could feel my eyelids drooping in the car ride back to the hotel. I felt as if I had just intruded upon a well-hidden local neighbourhood secret, and yet been welcomed not as the stranger that I was, but as one of the famiglia – well-fed, well taken care of, and sent back on my way well-rested.