Steve Russell

Rosa “Mama” Marinuzzi takes 7 Numbers back uptown.

Thanks to Christopher Columbus, that famous misnamer of people, places and things, we're stuck with the term “pepper” to name a variety of fruits from the capsicum annuum plant. A contorni of roast peppers could be many things – it could be, for example, a tomatillo-ancho custard piped into a hollow cherry pepper with a pickled banana pepper tuile poking out the top. At 7 Numbers, a side of roasted peppers is more like what you'd imagine: chunks of yellow bell pepper, sweetened by its own caramelized sugar, dropped without ceremony in the centre of a small white dish – like most of the food, plated with a family picnic sensibility. There are no garnishes. Food goes from pan to plate to tummy with no self-consciousness or irony.

And we have Rosa “Mama” Marinuzzi to thank for that. She'd been rocking this style for 13 years, since 1988, at Gio's, where she drew a loyal following before opening her own restaurant, 7 Numbers. Her small familial empire now consists of two locations (one on the Danforth, the other at its new 40-seat Forest Hill location furnished, as expected, with random garage-sale finds) that she runs with her sons Vito and Tony and cousin Massimo.

Though her English is just fine, Rosa greets customers and accepts compliments with a vague collection of obsequious vocalizations that don't appear to contain any real words or enunciation. She's a postcard of a matriarchal restaurateur you might send home from Rome. She just seems to want everyone to eat and be happy. Like her food, she's too rough-edged for her intentions to be doubted.

Her buttery calamari fritti ($5) have all the suppleness of al dente pasta and crispy, battered zucchini flowers ($6) have the baby zucchini stubs attached. The fat deposit scatters when hit by the acidity of lemony, marinated artichokes, snap peas and wedges of fennel, lightly roasted with crunch intact ($6). Marinuzzi displays rustic sincerity with simple pairings like prosciutto and figs ($6), or buffalo mozzarella and tomatoes ($5). Large, charcoal-scented sardines ($5) come packed in a tart tomato salsa with spicy peppers tucked beneath to complement the last bites of fish.

A pile of thick lasagna ($9.50), mascot of the 7 Numbers aesthetic, is saturated in a concentrated veal laden ragu. Muddled and informal, bearing no sign of ever having been cut at a right angle, the dish is an unpretentious joy to eat.

With no chance to rest, more plates of tomato-drenched proteins rush to the table. Veal shank osso buco ($10) is so thoroughly braised the meat and fat vacate the bone and swim in the shallow pool of chunky tomato sauce that puts the homemade Calabrese buns to good use, as does a tomato sauce surrounding a flaky fillet of rainbow trout ($12). Soon we're drowning in sauce as still more tomato immerses a fat cross-section of roasted eggplant ($8) filled with parmesan. Bordering on becoming a stew, the eggplant, sweet with balsamic vinegar and gooey with cheese, has little time to decompose as it disappears under the thrashing of several forks.

Other than a few forgettable desserts (schlepped in from a nearby bakery) and an ubiquitous tomato sauce, the menu never overextends itself. It's as free of flowery adjectives as the food is free of garnish and fuss. The prices reflect this, too – no item more than $12. The gruff charm of Marinuzzi and her sons is present in the undiluted simplicity of every dish. 7 Numbers is a terrifically casual destination where that finicky group from the office can share off each other's plates without embarrassment. It's right in that “meaty part of the curve” that George Costanza described, “not showing off, not falling behind.” The restaurant is snob-proof.

* PRICE INCLUDES APPETIZERS, ENTREES, DESSERT AND WINE AND TAXES AND TIP