There is nothing more archetypally Italian than Botticelli's Venus. With undulating golden locks cloaking a voluptuous nude body, she stares elusively into space from the suggestive pink bloom of her shell. It is only fitting that this piece of ready-made Italian ambiente adorns the walls of the new incarnation of Alloro.

A mere passing glance at Alloro's interior betrays the change of ownership. The hungry sidewalk-stroller is beckoned by windows elegantly warmed by white Christmas lights. However, the transformed decor does not quite live up to the promise of the window. The previously honey-colored, textured walls have been repainted white and covered with Victorian porcelain plates. Though certainly spare, the restaurant is white-on-white without the grace of abstraction. Instead, the sprinkling of tchotchkes verges on precious. Sevres porcelain knick-knacks accessorize the shelves with prim blue and white patterned sparkle, miniature paintings of cherubs in pastel colors decorate the walls. The menu has been toned down along with the decor. The prices have taken a nosedive, and the cuisine has evolved from trendy, Italiannate-Mediterraanean-inspired to Botticelli-traditional Italian. Fortunately, there is some continuity with the Alloro of yesteryear. The quality of the food remains superior. Simplified, but still delicious.

In keeping with Alloro's fidelity to Italian custom, the portions are fit for an adolescent boy or a portly aging mafioso. Appetizers ($3-8) are convincingly disguised as entrees, entrees ($7-17) as next week's leftovers. Sauteed calamari arrive in a giant, steaming heap, covered by a light, fresh tomato sauce. Because the calamari are not breaded and fried, their flavor and freshness penetrate the domination of the tomato (that's right). The dish begs to be washed down by chewy bread (though the lacklustre bread should really have arrived at the table warm) and sips of sharp Chianti. A daunting tower of giant, succulent mussels are steamed in a classic, light, garlic-white wine sauce. The empty bowl offered for shells was nowhere near the capacity needed to account for the volume of sucked-dry detritus that remained after the mussels were finished. Empty mussel shells were scattered around the table like fallout, creating unsightly wet patches in the crisp white paper tablecloth. Snoot is hard-sought at Alloro, however--the waiter seemed thrilled at our animalistic enjoyment of the food. A third appetizer seemed impossible to pass up. The only glaringly untraditional dish on the menu, the grilled shrimp on fennel salad is the last vestige of Alloro's former image. Four enormous shrimp are chargrilled and split open on top of a healthy portion of shredded fennel, red cabbage, and black olives. Lightly dressed in vinaigrette, the salad tops a circular "pancake" of ground garbanzo beans. The pancake is strangely savory with a crisp and lightly fried exterior and a moist and tender interior. The coarse, granular texture was reminiscent of polenta, though the waiter swore that garbanzo beans were the sole ingredient. This is a star appetizer, iconoclastic as it is.

Seafood risotto was laughably large and formally antithetical to any preconceived notions about the nature of risotto. Literally dozens of steamed mussels (it must be admitted that it will take a while before I can stomach another mussel), clams, and, impossibly enough, more calamari drown a sizeable platter. A spicier, more complex version of the calamari appetizer's tomato sauce married the flavors of the fish. There was indeed risotto underneath the shellfish, though it was only made accessible after much digging. Layers of clothing were shed in the grueling process. A word of advice: it is an exercise in absurd and repetitive gluttony to order either mussels or calamari as an appetizer followed by this seafood risotto. Veal Saltimbocca, of questionable relation to its somersaulting, juggling epinome, is scallopinied and topped with melted mozzarella cheese. A fragrant layer of sauteed spinach, sage and bits of prosciutto is sandwiched between the meat and melted mozzarella cheese. The strong, smoky flavor translates admirably into a midnight leftover snack.

In another nod to North End tradition, Alloro serves neither coffee nor dessert. Armed with sizable to-go packages, we toddled out of the door in search of a digestive cup of coffee. Alloro's facelift is neither unconditionally an improvement nor a regression, but a complete renovation. A solid bet for inexpensive, no-nonsense Italian food, Alloro quells the cruelest hunger pangs.