My dinner with Purgatorio was a perfect
example of this process. He greeted the Settimio waiters and many of the
patrons by name. After a brief conversation about the day’s catch, he settled
on a whole fish, backed in salt to indescridable succulence, with stuffed squas
blossoms just coming into season. For wine, he requested ‘that stuff I had when
I was sitting over in the corner last week’, which, alas, was not enough ‘talk’
to guide the waiter to the same vintage. No matter, it was a deliciously
memorable dinner.
After
a brief conversation about the day’s catch, he settled on a whole fish, backed
in salt to indescridable succulence, with stuffed squas blossoms just coming
into season.
That evening was in stark contrast to an
earlier outing to Agata e Romeo, which several sources touted as Rome’s premier
restaurant of the moment. Located a bit out of the centre, near the Basilica di
Santa Maria Maggiore, it is difficult to book and heart – stoppingly expensive.
Yet the atmosphere when we arrived on a Tuesday night was eerily subdued, in
the manner of traditional French temple to gastronomy. Most tables were
occupied by diners scanning the room self-consciously – not a crowd that would
make suggestions to the kitchen, which remained out of view. But I was dining
with two lively fellow journalists, and by the end of our meal, which was only
occasionally spectacular, our animated chatter had broken through the fourth
wall of formality. Romeo, who acts as maitre d’, came over to talk and then
pulled his wife Agata, the chef, out of the kitchen to give up some family
lore. Suddenly, the convivial spirit of her parents’ day, when the restaurant
evolved out of a modest inn, cut through the reverential hush of haute cuisine.
That
evening was in stark contrast to an earlier outing to Agata e Romeo, which
several sources touted as Rome’s premier restaurant of the moment.
I rented an apartment near the Pantheon,
where it was shamefully easy just to tumble out of the door and wander the narrow
streets of the centro storico, occasionally getting pressed to the wall by a
flash flood of tourists following their guide’s uplifted umbrella. It’s a
miracle, really, that Rome can absorb nine million visitors a year without
becoming a thoroughly commercialized self-parody. But it does, and I suspect
that in some obscure church, on a small piazza hidden down a tiny alley,
there’s a patron saint of la dolce vita. Over the years she has done a good job
of helping this glorious city to shoulder the burden of history without
becoming a fossilized relic.
Pantheon
In the centre this means that no amount of
peddling can diminish a sense of real life well lived. Although the piazzas are
crammed with sketch artists, rent-a-gladiators. Trinket hawkers and, my personal
favourite, a man who whittles exquisite humming birds, from carrots and
parsnips, the centre is also the seat of government. Purposeful
parliamentarians and ministry staff in impeccable suits share the cobblestoned
streets and pavement tables with day-trappers-not interacting, exactly, but
partaking of the same pleasures; the beautiful buildings, the splashing
fountains. The sunshine. One the streets around the parliament, fleets of
identical government-issue Alfa Romeos stand ready, all painted what an old
family friend from Calabria called ‘pezzonovante azzurro’ (roughly translated,
from the Sicilian reference to gun caliber, as ‘big-shot blue’).
Humming
birds
The privileged passengers in those cars are
among Rome’s most discerning diners, so it was no surprise that a half dozen of
the restaurants recommended to me were a stone’s throw from my apartment,
tucked among the postcard shops and budget pizza places. At Maccheroni, which
makes nearly everyone’s list. I selected thick-as-worms tonnarelli from the
menu of hearty, inexpensive Roman classics and sat at a rickety table on the
street, with a view of a sword swallower. The next day, a few years away, I
joined the patrons on the enclosed patio of Quinzi & Gabrieli and sipped
Champagne with an elegant meal of cuttlefish and crispy artichokes that cost
three times as much.
I
selected thick-as-worms tonnarelli from the menu of hearty, inexpensive Roman
classics and sat at a rickety table on the street, with a view of a sword
swallower.
Rome reveals its true self only on the
second, third or umpteenth visit, once you begin to wander without a
destination. And these revelations often happen when you least expect them;
you’ll turn a corner and find yourself in an exquisite little piazza, unchanged
since the Renaissance, spy a gorgeus courtyard through a briefly opened door,
or look up to see an expanse of terracotta roofs and towering umbrella pines
that take your breath away. Still, I was surprised to discover an entire
neighbourhood I never knew existed, one rich in stunning visual moments and in
a genuine sense of city life.
Find
yourself in an exquisite little piazza, unchanged since the Renaissance, spy a
gorgeus courtyard through a briefly opened door.
