You Can Take the Roman Cat out of the Chariot Race but...

There’s an Australian traffic rule that says “Road sense is the offspring of courtesy and the parent of safety.”  To Roman road sense, courtesy and safety would be the disinherited relative with burgeoning Tourette's.  I’ve heard a rumour, although I believe it to be an urban myth, that driving whilst using a mobile phone is illegal in Rome, or maybe only if your phone is a “mattone”, embarrassingly old, brick-sized handset. Every day on my bike, I watch iphones blazing through red lights, Blackberries gridlocking while receiving income text messages, so I'm looking forward to seeing what the Apple ipad can do.

When Roman friends spot me on my bike, I’m generally met with the kind of admiration, deserved only by one attempting to visit Rome on crutches. Even while landing his car fully on a path, up against a Marine pine in the city centre, a Roman acquaintance congratulated me on my “Bella Figura” meaning in this context, that I was setting an example of proper behaviour, which he clearly admired but had no intention of ever emulating. Doormen and Baristas alike, marvel at my fabulous front light. It’s bog-standard but, as nobody bothers with them, as rare as a cycle lane in Rome and what a shame there aren’t more of those given their runaway success.  They make an ideal place for leisurely sending texts while waiting for a bus. There's loads of space to exercise a grandparent after lunch, ample privacy for heated conversation on a mobile, with room for quintessential gesticulation and of course, they are a perfect location to lay out your must-have selection of fake Louis Vuitton handbags to sell: after all, the red tarmac background really sets them off.  

Today, while cycling down Via del Corso, the shopping equivalent of Oxford Street in London and once a horse racing track in ancient times, I was overtaken by a local on a bike whose special feature even outshone my front light. Now I was the one left marvelling. I gave chase, dodging pedestrians, obsolete over-sized phone in hand, shooting photos randomly.  I must have looked like the getaway penguin in  the Wrong Trousers, speeding along on top of the toy train, firing at  Gromit. As the gap narrowed, I lined up for a final shot of this Roman speeding through lunchtime traffic with a full-size ginger tom clinging to his back, hurtling along like a riderless horse during Carnevale. Once again,they came into frame then the cat leaned forward, dug its claws in deeper and they jumped a red light leaving me for dust. It’s pretty clear at this point that if I wish to get around these streets as effectively as a Roman, I'll either need to update my phone or get a cat.

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Artichoke Hearts or Pig Hearts anyone?

Tell a Roman you are a "veggie" and you’ll be able to read the ensuing facial expression clearer than a tabloid headline on Election Day: Why?  Why, because what was understood, is as inexplicable to a Roman as an announcement of self-imposed celibacy, abstinence from fine wines and chocolate, rejection of art, film, music and literature, voluntary unpaid overtime and boycotting of beach and ski season all rolled into one. Why would anyone take such punitive measures against oneself in a country where pleasure is the supreme antiserum for the effects of inescapable exposure to mind-cracking bureaucracy?  All this and what was actually understood by the term "veggie" was that you don’t eat steak, or “stick” as Romans like to pronounce it.

So no invite to T-Bone Station  allora.  Even this almost lifelong vegetarian, can find it a trial, getting Romans to accept, although never fully understand that she doesn’t appreciate bits of beast tail or bird crown being furtively hidden in her main course.  “But you no know what you lose Signora” they wail while arguing vehemently that the tail I've just unearthed in my soup isn't meat.  I’ve lost count of how many concealed body parts I’ve dodged although once, during a dinner with colleagues, a particularly cunning waiter garnished my rocket salad with raw grated horse. Masquerading as beetroot it didn't register on my finely tuned stowaway meat radar. Fortunately it tasted of nothing. Had my fellow diners resisted the temptation to line my office drawer with polo mints the following day, I may never have known.  

Going "veggie" in Rome shouldn’t be so perilous given the range of tasty seasonal vegetable dishes on offer, but true Roman food specializes in the art of making the internationally discarded parts of an animal delectable, especially those best covered by a bikini. For a Roman, eating only the vegetables is like going to the Vatican, salivating over the Raphael Rooms and then rejecting the Sistine Chapel.  And then there’s all the questions.  Enjoying authentic Roman food should require only one question: Where do I sit?  Questions communicate a lack of trust in the most authentic places where Roman diners just accept that everything will be great and exactly what they are in the mood for.  “Does it contain "Carne" meat?” can be considered one question too many, especially if your pronunciation isn’t pure Queen Elizabeth II and the restaurant owner hears "Cane" which means dog.  At this point you’ll require a professional translator to get you off the meat hook.  As a new Roman, I’ve learnt the secret to full waiter cooperation is to play your  “my doctor says” card. Blame allergies, doctor’s cholesterol warnings and watch his facial expression change to: Certainly Signora, courgettes instead of pig cheeks "subito", right away!

The next of my restaurant recommendations is a top class vegetarian restaurant called “Arancia Blu”(Orange Blue).  Even in Italian, the menu is easier to decipher than that of my favourite vegetarian restaurant “Terre a Terre”  in Brighton, England.  Neither restaurant serves radioactive fake meat but offers a range of creative, filling alternatives using seasonal vegetables, local cheeses, fresh pastas,pulses, pastries and polentas. Desserts are phenomenal and Arancia Blu goes to the trouble of detailing the best dessert wine to quaff with delizia on the menu.  Arancia Blu’s anonymous exterior belies a sophisticated interior, lined with racks of fine wines and shelves of books and films. There’s nothing noteworthy about its location, tucked away behind a petrol station in a nondescript part of Rome so nip there in a taxi for a relaxed, sophisticated evening and then head back to the citadel. TripAdvisor reviews are varied, those in English are positive, those in Italian are negative, maybe because more adventurous Romans often feel obliged to try something different but somehow it never quite satisfies them. How could it?  The service in Arancia Blu is slow but attentive and the owner is passionate about wine so ask as many questions as you like and take non-veggies with you, even Romans. Buddhists will be meditating in the Vatican before Gastro-gnome becomes a vegetarian but he’s still enthusing about his lasagnetta although he insists it contained anchovies and won’t be persuaded otherwise.  Watch my facial expression: It most certainly didn’t.

Arancia Blu: No Metro. Tram 14 from Termini Station for 18 stops, get of Prenestina/Coccone stop- I recommend a taxi!  Prices: mid range. Even meat-eaters will enjoy.

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37 means off-colour, 38 means off work

If a Roman says he has a 38, you could be forgiven for thinking he’s about to stick a pistol into your ribs and make off with your Fendi clutch bag. In fact, he’s probably letting you know he’s about to cancel on you; meeting, lesson, meal, date, he won’t be coming because he has “la febbre”, a fever which adult Romans succumb to on average once every three months.  A fever which I, by comparison, seem to be  immune to. This could be because unlike Romans I don’t employ a thermometre as regularly as a toothbrush, or because the hardworking Briton still stowed away inside me is resisting the ethos of 37 means off-colour and 38 means off work. 

This month will be a particularly challenging one for Romans, healthwise, as “Cambio di Stagione”, the change of season approaches. It’s puzzling to observe how Roman health falters when the change is from mild winter to balmy spring but in the weeks to come, the incidence of hypochondra will skyrocket. Many a reception and phone will go unmanned as "Cambio di Stagione" will be blamed for causing more chaos than the "wrong snow" does in England. Phantom sore throats will be wrapped up in woolly scarves tighter than Egyptian mummies, by Italian mummies. These scarves will stay in place whether blocked in traffic in one’s Smart, struggling with the present perfect in one's English lesson or cooking the last of this season’s artichokes in one’s kitchen.  

Bt the end of April  the climax of “Cambio di Stagione” will have taken place, usually during the final weekend.  Tourists will  continue to navigate Rome, in open-toed sandals and an unsightly mixture of linen and wool, oblivious to the mania underway in Roman homes as winter wardrobes are dutifully packed away and replaced by light to medium-weight spring wear. Once upon a time back in England the only difference between my winter and summer wardrobes was a bobble hat.  Nowadays, I too happily perform this ritual, safe in the knowledge that my cashmere won't see the light of day until October unless of course I find myself in England this August. 

There’s no doubt that Romans take the change of season very seriously, especially when it comes to clothes and food; this includes ice cream. From April onwards, the selection of ice cream increases to include a myriad of fruit flavours as technically chocolate and nut based ice creams go out of season although thankfully they aren’t stored away with winter woollies.  My gelateria recommendations will be plentiful during this new season as my passion for ice cream forms a solid bridge across my ongoing Anglo Saxon to Latin transformation. The photo at the top of  this post is of the best ice cream I have ever tasted in my life. Most Romans don’t even know the place exists and if Gastro-gnome has his way, they never will so I won't be giving away this Roman secret just yet. Winter flavours include rice pudding but the approaching “Cambio di Stagione” has already prompted the return of rose petal and wild strawberries soaked in strawberry liqueur and mixed into vanilla.  My ultimate quality test of any gelateria in any season is its pistachio and the pistachio here is D I V I N E.   

Fortunately I do have permission for the first of my Gelateria recommendations  “Gelateria del Teatro” . The ice cream is homemade with fresh fruit not sticky syrups. A short video of the production plays while you are choosing, or you can actually book a private demo by appointment. The pistachio is delicious and many flavours are innovative. Winter saw chocolate with Nero D’avola red wine. This season’s flavours include Sicilian lemoncake and raspberry vanilla with sage. There’s free seating outside around mosaiced tables and a convenient Roman drinking fountain at the foot of the staircase which leads to a small theatre above the gelateria. The location is certainly charming.  A couple of Tripadvisor reviews report dodgy service which I agree can be a little distant while the focus falls heavily on product quality. I recommend this place to chocolate ice cream fanatics who wish to enjoy a full range of chocolate flavours post Cambio di Stagione, still wearing medium to heavy winter wear. Romans will of course assume you are dressed to perform on the stage upstairs in A Winter’s Tale. 

Gelateria del Teatro: 5 minutes walk from Piazza Navona towards Castel Sant' Angelo. Take a 280 bus along the Tiber. No metro nearby. 

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