The whole world should be lit like the bar at Machiavelli. It’s
approximately the size of the head of a pin, and oftentimes more people
are fit into it than seems possible, and they’re all better looking and
happier than they actually are in real life elsewhere. On a recent
night, the wait for a table upstairs was an hour and a half; bathed in
the red glow of the “COCKTAILS” sign in the window, everybody drank
martinis and glasses of wine and didn’t mind. At the bar, a man
discussed his ongoing psychotherapy at length, with such good cheer
that it was clear that the treatment, the martini, his meds, or some
combination of all of it was working well. (“Therapy is not
depressing!” he said.)
Machiavelli’s been at the corner of Pine Street and Melrose Avenue
for a long time. Fancier, higher-concept Italian restaurants come and
go, amazing or disappointing or both; Machiavelli’s a reliable friend.
Machiavelli’s lasagna, baked to order (allow 20 minutes) with spinach
noodles and chicken livers, is the kind of thing you think about
suddenly for no apparent reason. Then if you don’t have it for
dinner that night, you will the next night or some night very soon.
The tables in the dining room don’t have red-and-white-checked
tablecloths, but they might as well. People bring their parents or
their 10 closest friends or someone they really like for a first (or
second, or umpteenth) date. Once (and probably more than once) one-half
of a couple arose from a table to get down on bended knee, velvety box
with ring in hand. This went over capitally, applauded by the whole
room.
The bar’s walls are wood paneled, the ceiling is dormered, and the
single table (known as “the island”) is coveted. People trudge past
outside, going down to or coming up from downtown. (It’s especially
satisfying viewing in the winter, when passersby look cold and
miserable, while inside everyone is insulated with good company,
beverages, and anticipation.) Usually nothing exciting happens in
the bar, but during the WTO, a hand-lettered sign in the window
declared the place independently owned and pro–sea turtle, and a
captive audience watched the cops lobbing tear gas canisters at
protesters. And one evening during happy hour not too long ago, two
slightly unkempt men became slightly unruly, demanding the identity of
the dapper man in the photo on the wall (it’s the owner’s grandfather),
then commencing to play dice (they brought their own). The barkeep
asked them to leave nicely. Belligerence ensued. She went behind the
bar and returned with a baseball bat. They left with an alacrity
suggesting they’d been on the business end of a baseball bat before,
and life went on, peace restored. 
Machiavelli Ristorante,
1215 Pine St, 621-7941.