By Paul Bernard

September 2003 – I was raised on a classic, mid-twentieth century diet of Swanson’s fine-frozen “TV” dinners, jelly doughnuts and Spam in its myriad configurations. A bonus of being members of the great American melting pot was the occasional flourish of exotic cuisines such as Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee pasta, French Vanilla ice cream and Rice-A-Roni products. The simple application of pineapple rings to any dish provided the excitement of the tropics.

After leaving home for State U. there would be many culinary revelations, the most transcendent being encountered in the Italian Restaurant: garlic, non-Velveeta cheese, draft beer and an embracing hospitality that made me feel a member of the family.

A visit to the Wonder Bar on Worcester’s Shrewsbury Street is, in many ways, a homecoming. This could be (and I’m sure it is) said by anyone from seven to eighty-seven years of age. The place isn’t really trapped in time; shards of each of its seven decades of operation have been frozen in place. Anywhere else this would be pretentious nonsense; the WB has the people-energy and the cuisine to make it happen.

On this weeknight, one of the first hot weeks of summer, we were lucky enough to be seated in front of the WB’s air conditioner. Beware of some of the booths in the rear of the dining room; they often get steamy this time of year. A compelling episode of the Simpsons was playing on a television with volume set on mute.

We started with glasses of Wachusett Summer Brew and an honest antipasto consisting of plenty of greens, sliced deli meats and cheese. A bit of grated cheese mixed into the juice from the sliced tomatoes and dressing made for good dipping with our Italian bread.

Although my guest wavered between the blackboard specials and some of the standard pasta dishes, my entrée decision was a forgone conclusion: pizza. The WB features twelve-inch pies that are ideal portions; three or four slices in the restaurant, a couple to go home. Their crispy thin crusts have a nutty flavor that’s lost in most of the thicker doughy pies.

Of the endless pizza variations, I’ve become partial to white. The Italians have a buttery sautéed onion version that features slender needles of rosemary. In America, we just don’t grow the variety of tender potatoes the Romans use on their stone pizza. But the Wonder Bar’s Clam and Garlic Pizza easily competes with the best. The chef uses fresh garlic in balance with a mixture of cheeses and just enough tender clams to provide subtle flavor.

My guest’s family hails from Italy’s more southern provinces — places where tomatoes and marinara and thick red wine are birthrights. In this culture, preparing eggplant is both science and a passion. He chose Eggplant Parmesan as his entrée this evening and wasn’t disappointed. The large portion was served with ziti and plenty of Italian bread.

My preference for independently operated establishments often surfaces in these accounts. Even more so when they’re family-run and concentrate on their own culinary traditions. Of course this bias cannot be blind to bad service or inferior quality. This is why I appreciate the Wonder Bar, a place where hospitality and quality cuisine appear effortless.

When I visit other parts of the country, the number of strip malls and throngs of people waiting to enter the latest theme-concept franchised establishment sometime trouble me. Why are we, as a people, so averse to adventure and quality? Go to places such as the Wonder Bar while we still have them.