It’s a usual Saturday night on “Borsari’s Corner”. Santino Trimboli, a tall white-haired Sicilian man constantly handing out business cards, entertains potential “walking customers” with his unmistakable Italian accent. Meanwhile, a young French waiter balances three inviting dishes dancing among the perpetual flow of people strolling along the footpath.

The multi-coloured neon sign, which was erected in the late 1940s in honour of Nino Borsari, still towers over the intersection of Lygon Street and Grattan Street illuminating the heart of Melbourne’s “Little Italy”. Here, Borsari Ristorante has proudly stood for 18 years, keeping the Italian spirit alive.

Stepping through the door of the restaurant, I get the impression that someone has turned back the clock. The atmosphere reminds me of a classic, old-style Italian restaurant: formal, but welcoming. The soft and melodic sound of Boccelli’s voice spreads around the room, and unforgettable memories of my childhood in Verona resurface at lightening speed, making me homesick for a moment.

Santino’s steady voice brings me down to earth.

“Sam, un tavolo per il ragazzo. Grazie!” he calls to a short and stocky waiter wearing a tight black waistcoat over a white shirt.

Despite his Aussie accent and his nickname, Salvatore (Sam) is purely Italian. He migrated from Sicily to Melbourne 50 years ago after his father’s death.

“At the time, there wasn’t Emirates. I had to travel by ship for 28 days to get to this remote country,” he tells me stressing his spirit of adventure.

It’s 9pm and the restaurant is full. Many different people are enjoying their Saturday night in one of the most popular restaurants on Lygon St. In one corner of the room, a Chinese family is having a huge feast. Three different pasta dishes overwhelm the round table: fettuccine, penne, and gnocchi. Next to it, an elderly Australian couple laughs at one of Sam’s jokes.

On the wall, a big white banner of Juventus F.C. – the most successful Italian soccer club – waves slightly under the blowing heater.

Reading the menu, I am pleased to see it offers a variety of Northern Italian and Mediterranean dishes. Among them is my grandma’s speciality: “gnocchi al pesto”, which I order –despite knowing my grandma’s version cannot be beaten.

There are many other Italian entrée and mains – such as the classic “bruschetta” and the creamy “spaghetti alla carbonara”. However, it’s clear that the kitchen offers “fusion cuisine” in order to adjust to more international flavours. I point my finger at the list, where I can see a kind of past I have never heard of before: “fettuccine pappone”, whose main ingredients are chicken, avocado and cream.

The presence of only two Italian reds – Chianti, and Montepulciano d’Abbruzzo –limits the choice of wine. Everything else on the list is mostly Australian and New Zealand.

An elegant Nepalese man, walking briskly among the tables, comes to take my order. Five years ago, when Sudip first walked into Borsari’s, he was employed as dishwasher. Now, he handles four hot dishes and moves gracefully among the tables as he were born to be a waiter.

Looking for the bathroom, I come to a stop as I approach the stairway: several pictures immortalising Nino Borsari and other famous Italian people cover the wall. They form a sort of Borsari’s photograph album. Among the several faces that hypnotise me, I can recognise Maria Grazia Cucinotta, a popular and beautiful Italian actress, as well as many Juventus players. Even a baby Ferrari tracksuit is framed and hung on the wall.

Upstairs, the fragrance of garlic wafts from the small kitchen where one of the chefs rings a noisy bell every time the food is ready to be served. Just next to the kitchen, in a second, smaller room (often used to host private functions), more than 20 people are celebrating a loud birthday. I can barely hear Boccelli’s high notes. Sudip, surrounded by three excited kids, is concentrating on cutting a huge chocolate cake with just one candle on it.

Only after getting back downstairs do I realise how small the bar is. It’s literally wedged under the staircase. The bartender has been overwhelmed by creased pink dockets that have demanded drinks and coffees nonstop since I walked in the restaurant.

After a justifiable wait, Sam heads towards me with a hot and inviting dish. I am ready to test my grandma’s competition. The gnocchi are surprisingly fresh and the pesto is enriched with real “parmigiano”. I am happy to enjoy my first Italian dinner in Melbourne.

After another glass of Chianti and a lovely Espresso, I walk to the counter to pay my costly bill (around $50). I notice that Borsari is still full at almost eleven o’clock. I’m impressed.

“How can a restaurant with such a small kitchen and bar manage a Lygon Street-Saturday night?” I ask to a middle-aged man sitting on a black cushioned chair in front of the cash register.

Frank Trimboli, Santino’s son and Borsari’s manager, does not look surprised at all by my question. “It’s like when a Boing 747 takes off…it looks impossible that such a heavy thing can fly… but, despite the small inevitable turbulences in the rush-hour, we have been running nights like this for almost 20 years,” he says proudly.

Above the counter, Italian soccer highlights follow one after the other on the small screen of an old television. For a moment, I forget where I am.

Santino is in the exact same spot where I found him two hours ago. At closing time, surrounded by the smoke of his Winfield cigarette, he becomes very talkative. He has been watching the life on Lygon Street for 39 years and tells me that “Nino Borsari was a member of the Gold-medal-winning Italian pursuit cycling team at the 1932 Olympics. He was beloved in Australia and was an active member in the local Italian community.”

This is the reason why, in 1994, Santino decided to keep Borsari’s name for his own restaurant.

“It is a tribute to that great man,” he admits fierily.