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Photo by David Leong
Old college friends (clockwise, from left) Kelli Hewett Taylor, Mike Baswell, Tim Stephens, Chuck Evans and Kelly Council enjoy a final meal at DeVinci’s. The Homewood restaurant closed on Aug. 10 after 64 years of service.
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Photo by David Leong
Owner John Day and daughter Camilla with a drawing of the restaurant.
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Photo by David Leong
Tim Stephens holds the Mona Lisa pizza as Chuck Evans and Kelly Council await eagerly for one last main course at DeVinci’s.
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Photo by David Leong
With Kelly Council, right, waiting her turn, Chuck Evans bites into the first slice of the restaurant’s signature pizza, the Mona Lisa.
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Photo by David Leong
DeVinci’s server Karli Bush and her son, Riley. Karli served more than 30 years at the restaurant, beginning when she was 18. Riley’s first job was here.
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Photo by David Leong
Head chef Rene Nolasco cooks a pizza for one of the final times in his 20 years at DeVinci’s.
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Photo by David Leong
DeVinci's owner John Day talks to customers at the bar. Everyone, it seemed, had a story to tell about their favorite times in this place.
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Photo by David Leong
With business up 30% in the final month and orders coming in from as far away as Tokyo, the cash register was a busy place.
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Photo by David Leong
Owner John Day gets a parting hug from a customer, a regular occurrence during the restaurant’s final days as people arrived for one last meal at an old favorite.
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Photo by David Leong
One last night, on Aug. 10, and then it was lights out for DeVinci’s Italian Restaurant after 64 years of serving Homewood and beyond.
The place was loud — not like a concert but with the warm buzz of every table full. Voices overlapped with the clatter of plates and the shuffle of servers balancing pastas, breadsticks and pizzas. Somewhere to the right, laughter. To the left, a story told over the clink of a wine glass.
Our table was in the back, after a 45-minute wait in a crowd that seemed to be here for the same reason.
For 64 years, DeVinci’s Italian Restaurant had been part of Homewood’s heartbeat — a first date one night, a graduation dinner the next, a Sunday family meal after that. People marked time here with calzones, pasta bowls and Mona Lisa pizzas.
Photo by David Leong
DeVinci's owner John Day talks to customers at the bar. Everyone, it seemed, had a story to tell about their favorite times in this place.
When the news broke on Instagram that DeVinci’s would close Aug. 10, memories poured in: first dates, anniversaries, after-game dinners, birthday parties. Calls came from as far away as Tokyo, asking for favorites to be shipped. In the month that followed, business jumped 30 percent.
“People are coming in, they’ve got a tear in their eye,” owner John Day said. “They’re reliving first dates and anniversaries and birthdays and baby showers. That’s what’s been happening all week.”
We were five former UAB student journalists — me, Tim Stephens; Kelli Hewett Taylor; Kelly Council; Mike Baswell; and Chuck Evans. “This might be the first time we’ve all been together since … 1991?” I said, and we ticked through the marriages, kids, careers, moves and losses since those carefree days.
This was our last supper at DeVinci’s. In many ways, it might have been yours.
APPETIZERS
The room moved at its own rhythm — servers weaving through with baskets of breadsticks and pizzas balanced high. As we waited, we retraced our college years: late nights at the paper, dive bars, cheap eats.
“This place was always where you went when you had a little money in your pocket,” Mike said. “It wasn’t Rocky’s with the $5 pizzas. You came to DeVinci’s when you wanted to make a night of it.”
Photo by David Leong
DeVinci’s server Karli Bush and her son, Riley. Karli served more than 30 years at the restaurant, beginning when she was 18. Riley’s first job was here.
Our server, Karli Bush, had worked here off and on for more than three decades. She once waited on her future husband here — and kept working after he became her ex. Her son Riley’s first job was bussing tables in this room.
We ordered cheesy breadsticks “the right way” and stuffed mushrooms. Karli nodded, shorthand from thousands of regulars who barely needed menus.
“It’s humbling to hear all these stories,” she said. “But part of me wants to say, ‘Where have you been all this time?’”
We laughed, because the truth stung a little. We hadn’t thought to come here in years — until we learned we might never come again.
THE TABLE REMEMBERS
Kelly Council recalled coming here as a baby in a pumpkin seat, then later with her dad for what would be their last meal together. Stories like hers echoed across the room: first dates, graduations, family dinners, anniversaries.
“I’ll have parents come in with their children and say, ‘I used to come here with my mom,’” Day said. “We had a couple fly up from Orlando for their last wedding anniversary here — they had their first one here 37 years ago.”
We noted the tablecloths were a bit sticky. “A good sticky,” I said.
“It’s lived in,” Kelli corrected. “The stories these chairs could tell.”
Photo by David Leong
Owner John Day gets a parting hug from a customer, a regular occurrence during the restaurant’s final days as people arrived for one last meal at an old favorite.
Around us, couples leaned in, families posed for photos, older pairs lingered over pasta. Everyone seemed to have a DeVinci’s story — and shared it with Day on the way out.
“You’ve got 200 people that come in and hug you and thank you,” Day said. “A lot of them cry. Every time you think you’re prepared, someone else touches your heartstrings again.”
MAIN COURSE
The food arrived one plate at a time. Stuffed mushrooms bubbling under cheese. Breadsticks with marinara. Finally, a Mona Lisa pizza took center stage, steaming under garlic and oregano.
Photo by David Leong
With Kelly Council, right, waiting her turn, Chuck Evans bites into the first slice of the restaurant’s signature pizza, the Mona Lisa.
Chuck took the first bite, mugging for the camera.
“This tastes like I just turned 21,” I said. “This is September 1991.”
“Just the smell is time traveling,” Kelly Council said.
The talk drifted to the hangouts of our early twenties — Hoppers, TC’s penny-beer nights, Dugan’s, The Mill. All gone. “DeVinci’s was the last holdout,” Kelly said.
At other tables, forks paused mid-air as diners slipped into their own versions of the same conversation. Behind us, a replica of da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” presided over our meal.
THIRD ACTS
Between bites, we turned reflective.
“We used to write stories like this,” Kelli said, recalling her years as a reporter covering restaurant closings. “Back then, you don’t have a connection. But to come back now, it’s like I remember the smell. I’m on the other side of the article this time.”
For Day, it was time for his third act. As he prepared to turn 64, he was closing the door on 64 years of history. He’d taken over in 1986 with his father, learning on the fly.
“The first few years were tough,” he said. “Inventory, scheduling, quality control — it took a lot.”
Business grew, staff became family. But in the last few years, costs rose 48 percent.
Photo by David Leong
Owner John Day and daughter Camilla with a drawing of the restaurant.
“I didn’t want to compromise the quality, the quantity or the value,” he said. “So the choice was smaller portions, less quality, higher prices — or walk away. And the decision was, let’s walk away with dignity after 64 years.”
A new owner plans another Italian restaurant here, but Day will step away. “This took a toll,” he said. “I thought closing it was going to be easier.”
The Mona Lisa pizza was down to a few slices. Plates and glasses cluttered the table, but no one was in a hurry to move. We boxed the leftovers, reluctant to let anything — or the night — go to waste.
LAST CALL
Photo by David Leong
One last night, on Aug. 10, and then it was lights out for DeVinci’s Italian Restaurant after 64 years of serving Homewood and beyond.
The morning after it closed, I stopped by. The blinds were down. The lights were off. The walls were bare. Not a menu in sight, not a crumb left behind.
I thought back to our last supper — the hugs, the promises to get together again. “Let’s not wait another 30 years,” someone said. We agreed to text about tickets, dates, plans.
But deep down, we knew we wouldn’t.
As we left that night, we said we needed to live in the moment more — to slow down, appreciate people and places while we have them.
And then, without thinking, I reached to scroll on my phone.
