ROME
Food & Travel
I once met a man who, infuriated by the overpriced, sneeringly rude restaurants where he had dined in Rome, vented his rage by stealing a damask napkin from each one. How many did he have? Fourteen, he replied. It was a small gesture of personal protest, quite reprehensible of course, but one that will strike a chord with anyone who has suffered from the disdainful service and poorly prepared food that characterise many of the tourist clip-joints in the Eternal City.
Fleecing the foreigner, however, is nothing new. Its a game as old as the seven hills; the first Jubliee Year in 1350 attracted 5,000 arrivals a day, most of whom complained about the derelict condition of the city and how they were ripped off by the locals. The first guide book, Mirabilia Urbis Romae, probably came with a warning to 15th century travellers to watch their wallets.
Medieval pilgrims on religious relic crawls, English milords, Romantic poets and painters, big bucksTexans, Japanese Gucci-worshippers and the like have all been, still are, rich pickings for the wily Romans. They couldnt care less. They know people will flock to Rome as long as the world keeps on turning, however eternally maddening, demanding and draining the city may be. We envy them for their museum-city, but they are the ones who have to make it work on a daily, domestic basis. Hence the grafitti on Rinascimento palazzi, washing strung out over shrines and statues, swarms of demented scooters circling the Colosseum like invading armies, the insouciance with which drivers career demonically through medieval streets at least a foot narrower than their cars. It is not that the Romans are not proud of their city, quite the reverse, but 3,000 burdensome years of living in the centro mundi inevitably produces a certain ennui, a been there, done that, got the toga to prove it, state of mind.
The Romans have been recycling the fabric of their city since ancient times when Emperor Maxentius criticised them for pulling down magnificent old buildings to get material for new houses. As a result, Rome is a city where you can slip through time, in and out of twenty plus centuries in as many minutes. It is an intellectual millefoglie of history, culture and spirituality, typified by the Renaissance palace piled on top of the Theatre of Marcellus or the 12th century church of San Clemente built above Roman ruins, a Persian altar, 4th century church and 5th century catacombs. Recently Ovids villa was discovered during building work on the citys environmental services department.
As well as the great set pieces - the Campidoglio, Forum, Spanish Steps, restored Sistine (treat it like the first day of Harrods Sale and stake out an early place in the queue) - Rome is full of tiny treasures and precious eccentricities, a restaurant run by nuns or a palace only open to the public one day a year, 16th March. Even when squally and wet, Rome has its wonders; its worth a tempest to admire the rain inside the Pantheon falling through the oculus, the aperture in the top of the dome, which forms a transluscent column before flowing into brilliantly designed drains.
The city is profligate in its surprises: turn a corner and stumble across a wonder of the Renaissance, a Roman pillar propping up a crumbling gold or pink Baroque facade, a shady cloister, an imposing piece of classical statuary, an out-of-work actor playing a fake gladiator with a pasteboard sword. Rome is a kaleidoscope of civilisation, best seen from the back of a Vespa like the young Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, though today shed be wearing Ray-Bans, clutching a telefonini under her crash helmet.
But Rome is also a city of the senses: the daily commotion - the sinfonia urbana - of the streets, the scent of juniper and pine, a cool marble fountain. It is in the taste of fresh pizza bianca or decadent tartufo chocolate and cherry ice-cream in the Piazza Navona whose extravagent urban beauty transcends the shoals of school parties, the vendors of Vuitton fakes, wind-up hula dolls and pontiff keyrings. And it is in the deep clangor of bells which, as Edith Wharton described, periodically cover Rome with a roof of silver.
Rome not only overwhelms the senses, it is also one of the most sensual cities in the world. Surrounded by voluptous paintings and statuary, one is constantly aware of the corporeal, heightened by the bizarre embrace of sex and religion, nowhere more ambiguous than in Berninis St Teresa In Ecstacy. The women of Rome are plugged into this erotic current - flamboyant, provocative, diamond crucifixes trembling over plunging necklines.
Warmed by the Southern sun, the Romans are earthy, voluptous and exuberant. Mercurial and moody, they can be surly one minute, utterly beguiling the next. If they appear oblivious to the needs of the visitor, it is because they refuse to let mere passing transactions stand in the way of the real business of life, the art of living, acted out against the personal stage set that is their entire city. Life is an eternal street party, literally so during Carnevale when confetti and streamers decorate the length of the Corso, for centuries the scene of grotesque and cruel races. Today, small children parade in fancy dress, gangs of teens spray the unwary with shaving foam and everyone eats frappe, knots of fried dough.
Part of this love of life is a love of food, but with typical, ingrained superiority Romans love to eat their time-honoured foods best, either in their neightbourhood taverna or at home with family and friends. Culinary traditions run deep. Tempting locals to move out of their familiar patch is a challenge, but if anywhere can suceed it will be Umberto Vezzoli, whose award-winning cooking at the new Vivendo restaurant at the St Regis Grand suceeds in being seasonal, light and sophisticated without losing sight of its roots, matched by a world-class wine list.
It will not be a first, though, for the historic hotel. When it opened in 1894, César Ritz suceeded succedded in persuading the Roman aristocracy to entertain there outside their private palazzi for the first time. Now superbly restored, after a $35 million makeover, to its original grandeur, the bellhops, acres of red and gold silk, immense Murano chandeliers and fabulous Bulgari suite should appeal to the eternal Roman love of colour and ornate display that one can fancifully argue dates back to the Domus Aurea, Neros Golden House decorated entirely in gold and precious gems.
Change in the Eternal City, however, is not always to the good. The Cafe de Paris has become a burger bar, and Gusto, the Roman take on a Conran Gastrodome, displays confusion on the fusion food front. Classic Roman cooking transcends the fashion fads: simple, robust and full-flavoured pastas and gnocchi, winter dishes of beans and lentils, pork and lamb. Pasta also appears in two, heart-warming traditional soups, aromatic with sage and rosemary - pasta e ceci and broccoli e arzilla - as definitively served at Piperno, a historic restaurant in the Jewish Ghetto that remains a triumph of integrity over celebrity.
The Jewish community of Rome, one of the oldest in Europe, has so influenced Roman food it is now hard to distinguish between the two, although a few dishes are still described specifically as alla giudia. In the 16th century, the occupation of friggitori, fried food vendor, was one of the few permitted to the impoverished Ghetto jews. Fritto misto, once a way to use up odds and ends, is now a speciality of the Roman menu, as are the salt cod fritters with curly, bitter puntarelle, sole offerings at the hole-in-the-wall Filletti di Baccalà .
Yet, Rome has always been able to obtain the best of ingredients from the fertile countryside of Lazio and beyond, and at Volpetti, the riches of the Roman table are stacked in dazzling profusion - cheeses beyond count, salumeria, bread and pasta, dried figs wraped in vine leaves, slabs of torrone like breeze blocks, salted anchovies scooped straight from the tin............... In the rough and tumble of nearby Testaccio market, fish, fruit and vegetables glisten with freshness, props for a Caravaggio painting.
Although cardoons and asparagus have their place in the culinary calendar, peas, broad beans and artichokes are the quintesssential Roman vegetables. In winter, the small violet artichokes are deep-fried alla Giudia, so they splay open like a courtesans corsage; later in the year, the larger Romanesco artichokes are stewed with garlic and mint.
Roman food reflects the Roman temperament - direct and down-to-earth with cheap, wholesome meat dishes such as oxtail or the baby lamb chops described as scottadito, hot enough to burn your fingers when picked up (and addictive when washed down with Frascati superiore)
Its a literal blood and guts style of cooking - many traditional specialities derive from the quinto-quarto (fifth quarter of the animal), so-called because they were once paid to workers as extra wages whilst the prime cuts went to cardinal and patrician tables. Pajata, tripe, brains or sweetbreads are widely served, but hard-core offal addicts in search of coratella should make for Testaccio, the newly fashionable 19th century slaughter house district.
The macelleria, butcher shops, of Rome are still temples to this collective, carnivore ecstasy, with handsome interiors, painstakingly arrayed produce, proud service. First amongst equals is Annibale, favoured by Sophia Loren, Fellini and a host of other screen names, whose perfectly preserved premises date back to 1898. A vast bouquet of pink roses towers over gargantuan sides of beef on Carrara marble counters decorated with bronze bas-reliefs; burnished brass bulls heads act as butchers hooks, the lighting is a miracle of art nouveau ironwork. Recently, there was much excitement when Cameron Diaz called in whilst working on a Scorcese film in Cinecittà . For the theatrical Sr. Annibale it was like the glory days of the Via Veneto all over again.
Equally captivating is Viola, the last surviving Norcineria, specialist pork butchers shop originally run by seasonal artisans from Norcia in Umbria who would time-share premises with summer straw hat vendors. Still, the place in Rome to buy your guanciale, the tiny 19th century shop is a delight, crammed with an array of fresh and cured produce including hams on a par with those from Parma and Langhirano. All purchases are carried off in distinctive mauve plastic bags; as long-time resident, food writer Diane Seed, who runs a cookery school in the historic Palazzo Doria Pamphili, aptly says, Its not every day pigs trotters get to look like lingerie!
Like many of the best things in Rome, its somewhere you feel the Romans would rather keep to themselves. Perfectly happy for the visitor to eat badly, theyre a lot fussier on their own account. Myosotis is an exception to the tourist-trap norm, one of those felicitous restaurants where you could happily eat every day. Family run, it is a rare combination of talented, subtle cooking from Angela Marsili, superb ingredients chosen by her husband for the daily-changing menu and genuine front-of-house warmth from her daughter. Add to this a charming, low-key setting, excellent wine, their own Umbrian olive oil and reasonable prices, and you get a taste of the dolce vita that is the real cucina romana.
When I first visited Rome, I learnt three things:
1) To cross the road by hailing a passing nun for whom the murderous traffic would part like the Red Sea.
2) To eat spaghetti without looking like the photo in the Pasta Museum of Sophia Loren forking up a fearful tangle (though I would have settled for the cleavage).
3) Not to overdose on the culture. Like Chekhov, Sauntering around the Vatican, I wilted from exhaustion, and when I got home, my legs felt as if they were made out of cotton.
Theres one more thing. That old shtick about coins in the fountain really does work. It took twenty years, but my road once more led to Rome.
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