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.