When Is a Bridge Not a Bridge?

When a Roman talks feverishly about a bridge, “Ponte”  there’s little chance he’s referring to anything spanning the Tiber.  He could be enthusing about status-symbol leather goods, trademark The Bridge but the likelihood is, the bridge in question relates to a one-day National holiday, which, if it were to fall on a Tuesday for example, could merge with the nearest weekend to form a four-day holiday: Ponte, a figurative construction with the power to magically spirit away working days in between. Lately, some work-shy Romans have been bemoaning the loss of two precious bridges, neither of which has collapsed, or been sold brick by brick to the Americans. Both have failed to materialize due to a calendric catastrophe, namely the last two National Holidays have fallen on a weekend. Che pizza! What a pain! But just as it seemed all was lost, Bingo! Today sees a National Holiday fall on a Wednesday which can only mean one thing: Superponte! June 2nd marks the anniversary of Italy becoming a Republic and what better way to celebrate than to bridge today with two equidistant weekends and take the whole week off.  If your boss happens to be a royalist or still refer to Piazza della Repubblica as Piazza Esedra, its pre-Republic name, you may have had to consider a one-way bridge, the secret being to check with Guido Guidi’s weather forecast first before deciding in which direction.

Taking an extended holiday to mark the day Italy sent its Royal Family packing is a curious concept to a Briton whose Royal Family continues to be one of her country’s star attractions.  Maybe the Queen would have to consider upping her game in the face of stiff competition like a Pope or the works of Michelangelo if she faced getting the heave-ho too.  This said, it seems that the Italian Royal Family may have secured a few more votes way back when if only reality TV or even TV had been invented.  Since being allowed back home after decades in exile, the man who would now be king, Emanuele Filiberto is a big hit with today’s public. This year, the viewing public voted him into second place at Sanremo, Italy’s equivalent of the Eurovision Song Contest.  They also sent him rocketing to victory in Italy’s version of Strictly Come Dancing.  Let’s just hope if it ever came to it, Prince Harry could pull something out of the bag on the X Factor, few would ever expect her Royal Highness to break into song.

As a new Roman I got into the spirit of the Ponte this week and took a few hours off on Monday.  After estimating a four-day wait to get into the Caravaggio exhibition at the Scuderie Museum, I gave up and went to try out brunch at Rome’s reportedly best vegetarian restaurant “Margutta Ristorarte” just across the road from Episcopo Lipinsky (fantastic bed and breakfast reviewed on this site). TripAdvisor says it’s expensive but worth it for evening meals but I’m recommending this restaurant for its great value, delicious brunch. Brunch in Rome basically means serve yourself from a large buffet for a set price. It seems to have precious little to do with breakfast and the Roman jaw usually drops when I explain the construction of the word.  The food is excellent and not having to police it for tail or tongue is a bonus if like myself, you are a veggie.  Hot dishes include melanzane alla parmigiana and vegetarian lasagne. The restaurant is bright and sunny and located below Federico Fellini’s old flat near Piazza del Popolo in a hidden, leafy street in the centre of Rome. Get there around 12.30 if you want to be one of the first to dive in and if you are visiting during this Superponte, relax, the next Ponte in Rome falls on a Tuesday. Hurray!
Margutta Ristorarte. Vegetarian. Metro: Flaminio or Spagna. Good disabled access. Open every day

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The Man in the Emperor Purple Shirt Says Yes

What is it about Roman DNA that sends many of them haring around this magnificent city, oblivious to the existence of anyone they don't know by name, driving like rabid dogs frothing at the sight of yet another sparkling fountain?  Could it be that many are suffering from ESS: "Emperor Slave Syndrome"? This condition causes sufferers with a rich heritage of invading, conquering ancestors to emulate the behaviour of their ancient relatives, regardless of their own modern day status.  Those unrelated fall automatically into the role of submissive slave.  That would be you and I. 

Those in possession of a whistle, golfing umbrella or pocket-sized car seem to display the severest symptoms which include: exiting buses and trams with one’s umbrella already fully open into the faces of passengers waiting to board.  Taking one’s good old Valentinian time strolling along narrow paths littered with other emperors’ dumped scooters and finally failing to even acknowledge those who stand aside patiently waiting to get through.  Bunking off from work or striking on a Friday to enjoy 3 days at a Terme-Wellbeing centre (modern day Roman bath). Abandoning one's Smart chariot wherever one sees fit ,whether it be up a slave’s driveway, in the middle of a cycle lane or blocking the exit to an entire car park. 

As a new Roman (rebellious slave), I find the secret to living amongst this epidemic is the recognition of the sufferers’ perspective, ie: all pedestrians are bothersome slaves, cyclists are bothersome slaves running errands and anyone else who dares to block their ancestral highway is part of an invading army and will hear the emperors' battle cry in the form of an insistent car horn, even at 3 in the morning. Commonly, this condition causes queuing, punctuality and seating-plan blindness. I'm sure modern day Caesar wouldn't line up to weigh fruit and veg in GS or let others leave a room or a metro carriage before he entered.  As regards meetings and dates,usually the prospective audience will have already arrived and be losing patience, before the afflicted one finally swoons in , medicinal espresso in hand.  

Many Romans who suffers from this syndrome find they are unable to work in customer service, particularly in clothing retail as the sight of slaves unfolding garments can further aggravate the condition and ensuing action is generally not conducive to high sales.  Many prefer employment which seats them behind a glass divide or requires them to use a whistle.  As yet there is no cure although recent statistics have shown a marked reduction in sufferers' symptoms following a trip to London.  Sufferers’ colleagues and carers will need to top up their pleasure levels regularly to build up their immunity or they will find themselves prone to impromptu bouts of uncontrollable griping about life in Rome.  

The latest of my restaurant recommendations and a perfect pleasure top-up point is Dal Paino, (Dandy's place) an excellent informal pizzeria, run by a man who dresses like an emperor but doesn’t behave like one.  If you want a table, track him down in his emperor purple shirt and give him your name.  Don’t fret about the ESS sufferers clumped around the entrance protesting their right to steal in ahead of you.  When the man in the emperor purple shirt says yes, you are in and they will be on their way to nearby Da Baffetto, (Little Moustache's place) hyped up in guide books but not a patch on Dal Paino. (check review 10 on TripAdvisor) Pizzas are thin crust, cooked in a wood-burning oven, pastas are good too. The service is friendly and efficient (except on Saturday nights, peak season) and the prices are good value.  The location is central, tucked in behind Piazza Navona which Gastro-gnome told me was once known as Pizza Navona due to the high volume of pizzerie nearby. Note to SuperAli: Beware of emperor humour! 

 Dal Paino. Via Parione 34. No Metro. 87 Bus, direction Piazza Cavour.

 Get off in Corso del Rinascimento.

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In This Season: Burgundy and Orange?

A good deal of Romans are currently suffering from an extra virulent fever, which is causing many of them to sleep, work and socialize in burgundy and orange lycra. The fever has risen to 71 but thankfully not on a thermometer. Instead, it’s registering on a league table, as Roma Football Team "La Magica", still have a fighting chance of winning “lo scudetto”, Italy’s premier league championship but only if nobody tempts fate by saying anything about it out loud. 

As the season comes to an end, doubtful that their team’s sporting prowess alone will clinch them the title, fans of  La Magica won’ t be found surmising, or calculating their teams odds for all to hear. Such behaviour ‘porta sfiga’, brings bad luck and will certainly jeopardize their hopes of glory.  When pushed for a reaction, one ardent fan will only say she fears Inter (who currently stand between La Magica and this holiest of prizes) will rob them of second place. As a supporter of the rival Roman team Lazio,  I'm always eager to vocalise, whenever possible, that victory is still mathematically within their grasp.

So support for La Magica remains strong but silent, choosing instead wordless, visual symbols of devotion, encouragement and solidarity. Even a tourist would have to be seriously colour blind not to notice the city’s burgundy and orange hues right now.  Take-away pizzas arrive with a pile of alternating burgundy and orange paper napkins, taxi drivers have little burgundy and orange Padre Pio collages stuck to their dashboards. Bus drivers, on their way back to the depot at the end of a shift, silently display their destination as “Forza Roma” on match nights. As a new Roman, I don’t even react any more when I cycle across town to my favourite bar or gelateria, only to find the staff locking up the shutters four hours before closing because Roma are playing.  A few years back, I would have stomped around protesting and mumbling “just watch Match of the Day” under my breath. Now I don’t even expect an apology or excuse. Last Sunday all psyched up for some malaga and rice pudding ice cream, as more shutters came crashing down in front of me, in time for kick off, I just smiled, mouthed "Forza Lazio" and cycled off in search of an aperitivo instead.

The first of my aperitivo recommendations is in the ancient district of Monti, which to most Non-Romans is a secret in itself.  The address and name of the place is via URBANA 47. TripAdvisor reviews in Italian, say the restaurant serves overpriced, non-traditional Roman cuisine. I’m recommending it for it’s great aperitivo. The price is top-end but good value. Instead of the usual cold pizzette and mini sandwich triangles, the food, which is organic, comprises of hot pastas, homemade quiche, pates and bean salads served with excellent quality local wines or cocktails. Help yourself to seconds if you are skipping dinner. The unanimous opinion is that the interior is full of character, some collectable furniture is for sale, and the location is charming in a tiny ivy-clad residential street,  once an ancient Roman high street, leading towards the Roman Forum. As I sat in Urbana 47, all my thoughts of ice cream disintegrated as Roma’s 24-week unbeaten record began to unravel and the waitress brought over a perfectly blended Aperol Spritz, a popular orange-coloured cocktail which thankfully isn’t served in a burgundy glass, not even when La Magica are playing.

Urbana 47: Metro Cavour. Open every day. Aperitivo 18.00-19.30. Fine for daft vegetarians. 

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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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Buon Scribbling on your Neighbour's House

As a child, while other parents were warning their children not to go out of the garden, my father, a former sailor on the H.M.S. Dainty, was warning me never to venture further south than the Rock of Gibraltar. Beyond this point, I would surely encounter civilizations unfamiliar with social manners and rife with scoundrelly men. Obviously his ship had never docked anywhere near Rome otherwise he may have reduced my boundaries a little.  Living in Rome, sometimes I struggle to accept the Roman unwillingness to use "please" and "thank you" when dealing with people they don't know.  They clearly consider me demented when I thank them for my change in shops, or for clearing my plates in a restaurant.  If I'm to cut it as a Roman in this city my automatic English manners will need to become a little more discreet.

There was a time, when I'd punctuate the supermarket cashier's blunt and charmless request for money with a firm "please" and an edifying grin but yesterday, as I buzzed a woman into my building, held the door open as she leisurely swayed in without acknowledging my existence, I quelled the desire to shout "I'm not the bloody portiere (doorman)" as I so often have in the past. Instead I chuckled, remembering an incident in England when a friend of mine, Sir Royston, delivered the "portiere remark" on leaving a Starbucks in well-heeled Royal Tunbridge Wells. A woman entering with a push chair, failed to audibly thank him for holding the door open. She did however overhear our shopping plans so after collecting her double-decaf skinny soya latte, she marched into the Marks and Spencer food hall, tracked us down like a dog and proceeded to shout at him for even daring to suggest she had no manners.

So Romans aren't big on their "Ps" and "Qs", who cares? They do have an endearing way of wishing people they know, the sincerest enjoyment and pleasure in everything they do as after all, pleasure is generally the goal in Rome.  Simply say "Buon" which means "Enjoy-Happy-Good" when added to something which is about to happen, ie: "Buon Appetito!", "Buon looking for a parking space!", "Buon lunch with your hot cousin!", "Buona visita! (Have a great time at the doctors!)", "Buon proseguimento (Enjoy the rest of what you are doing now!)" and my personal favourite "Buon lavoro! (Enjoy your work!)" delivered with irony as a job here is harder to find than a Roman wearing flip-flops in December and many of those who have one bitterly resent doing it.

My father’s warning came to mind this Monday lunchtime as I sat outside a tiny trattoria in Trastevere, taking in this year’s first rays of sun.  As I demolished a plate of "Cacio e Pepe", I was wondering about the origin of a giant masterpiece of graffiti on a wall opposite my table, possibly left by a scoundrelly man, an apology that read:” Ti Prego, Perdonami, Ti amo! (I beg you, forgive me, I love you!)”  Just as Romeo called up to Juliet on her balcony, the Roman man seeks the attention of his loved one as she appears on her apartment balcony, four floors up.  A declaration of love or an apology is delivered either on the pavement below,  or for maximum effect, right along her neighbour’s wall. I can’t imagine the strength of an apology which could warrant scrawling  “Sorry mate” across the pristine magnolia rendering of an Englishman’s castle, somewhere between the leaded bay window and the polished brass numberplate. Maybe a “sorry I smashed your number plate while parking”?  In Rome a written apology of this nature would bring about an epidemic of writer’s cramp. 

Another of my restaurant recommendations: "Da Enzo" in Trastevere is a tiny, very busy trattoria serving typical Roman food. It’s cheap and the chef doesn’t care about your diet so you will get more than the statutory 100g of pasta on offer in most Roman restaurants, great if you just want a first course and no second. Tables are tightly packed so be prepared to make friends with the residents of Trastevere, the oldest residential area in Rome. TripAdvisor reviews are fair. Don't go there to have a leisurely meal at peak times.  Romans believe hungry people standing in a queue need feeding as soon as possible so if you are done eating, be off with you! 

Closed Sundays. Book if you want to sit outside. Fine for daft vegetarians such as myself. Tram 8 or Bus 280 and walk for 5 mins. 

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Friends, Romans,countrymen lend me your Moncler

I’ve long since considered Romans to be the sensationally over-accessorized Barbie Dolls in the toy box where the English would be Steiff teddy bears, perennially redecorating Dolls Houses. The average Roman owns an exhaustive range of designer accessories, enough to make the ground floor of an Harvey Nichols department store feel inadequate. Winter sunglasses, summer sunglasses, swimming goggles, skiing sunglasses and goggles, sometimes I wonder if their passion for seasonal sports exists only to facilitate  their obsession with modelling the latest quality accessories, prime example: The Roman skier.

Every February, as soon as they have digested their last "Frappe"(Roman "Pancake Day" food),  Romans strap their skis onto their little silvery cars and hurtle up the motorway to invade the Alps and the Dolomites, in much the same way their mighty ancestors invaded Northern Europe centuries ago. Faultlessly accessorized and exorbitantly decked out in Moncler  (unoffical suppliers of the Roman ski uniform) they are ready to face their greatest enemy since Boadicea: snowboarders.  They regard them with as much contempt as Jaguar drivers felt for gold Ford Capri drivers in the 70s.  Roman skiers, as far as they are concerned, own the mountains and snowboarders are cheapening their territory, way more than Ryanair could ever cheapen air travel and that takes some doing.

As an aspiring New Roman, I realise I’ll never be fully respected until I can ski and accessorize properly (should I be wearing slippers and sunglasses typing this?)  so last weekend I set off for Roccaraso, in Abruzzo. It’s a relaxing ski resort which has been unexpectedly conquered by wealthy Neapolitans. By car, it takes less than three hours from Rome, subtract 30 mins if a Roman is driving you there, or an hour if his ancestors are Neapolitan. Within twenty minutes of my arrival in the resort, two local brothers (think Newhart) kitted me out, under the supervison of their wise old aunt who invented a price and introduced me to another brother who promised to teach me all I needed to know. True to his word, three days later I could perform a respectable snow-plough, although I'm confused about why the position internationally referred to as "slice of pizza" is called "fish fin" in Italy, equally "french fries" is called "unite your skis"  And I thought Italians were into their food.

 Back in the Eternal city, I feel more Roman than Caesar himself until the Romans catch sight of my burnt face. Once again, I’m exposed as an imposter and lectured about the difference between Piz Buin lotion for the beach and for the mountains, goggles for skiing and sunglasses for Winter walks in Trastevere. Come on Romans! Are you telling me  Marc Antony was wearing his funeral-oration sunglasses for his “Lend me your ears” speech, because  his fling-with-an-Egyptian-queen goggles wouldn't have been appropriate? Of course he was.

  

A note for visitors to Rome who fancy going skiing: My hotel recommendation is the Hotel Suisse in Roccaraso. Perfect for a “settimana bianca” (white week.skiing holiday), it’ s a friendly, cosy family hotel which keeps its Christmas lights and outside Christmas trees in place well into March. The food is average, but the overall value is good and the staff can’t do enough for you, even denying themselves a good snigger when you look like a partially deflated hot-air balloon in your ski suit. Tripadvisor has only one review because this place is a secret. The review is in Italian but trust me, a good time was had by all.
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Tiramisu: delicious when eaten on a zebra crossing

My favourite meals in Roman restaurants are comparable only to being invited to a friend’s gluttonous grandma’s house where requesting a price list or a menu would be equally as inappropriate.  Instead, wobbly tables (or as they say in Italian, dancing ballando) are sandwiched together refectory style and a jovial owner stands at one end shouting out the traditional dishes on offer, to all within earshot . Ordering is achieved by raising a hand when something sounds heavenly and hoping the request is noted on a wad of scrap paper the owner juggles while counting.  As with many things in this city, there’s giant scope for blunder but the food is, as they say here “Da panico”.   The kind of delicious that can send you into a panic as you anticipate the arrival of your order.  In this environment I could be mistaken for a Roman until I reveal my life-long vegetarianism, a phase they all concur I will grow out of.

These Roman eateries are mostly family-run and granny is often at the helm, so checking what kind of food she’s into before you sit down is a wise move. Sending back a bowl of soup because there’s tail in it could prompt her to leave her stove and deliver you a disapproving look, unless you are a grizzling child or vegetarian, in which case you are only pitied for turning down Roman delicacies.

These types of eating establishments are real Roman territory and only the most intrepid of tourists would dare to navigate them.  It's a shame as the atmosphere is one of frenetic family celebration and the food is genuine.  So often, in line at Ciampino Airport, the air in the departure lounge is thick with moans; “Arrogant bloody waiters, the food's not all that” . The chorus of the disgruntled British tourist who mistakenly chose to dine with a  view of a monument instead of the dessert trolley, full of homemade sweets.   The Colosseum will still be there when you have finished eating. 

So my first restaurant recommendation is “Luzzi”.  It’s not visible from the Colosseum, but hidden in a sidestreet nearby. Perfect. There, non-Romans feast on typical Roman fare with locals, amidst the animated, pleasurable confusion of an authentic Roman trattoria.  It's usually overflowing, so turn up and socialize in the jumbled queue until you are squeezed in.  In  spring, the boundaries of the outdoor eating area swell into the road when necessary. Their grilled aubergines and onions au gratin are a great starter and spaghetti alle cozze are spectacular on Tuesdays and Fridays when the mussels have just been caught.


TripAdvisor reviews are fair in my opinion although whosoever thinks they saw a microwave probably saw a portable TV in the kitchen: all Roma football matches are religiously observed.  Service can be sporadic and brusque but never arrogant. One Pavarotti-esque waiter likes to address all his customers as “secco”, Roman dialect for “skinnyribs”. "Luzzi" isn't intimate or sophisticated (you may well have to set your own cutlery out as you would at granny's house)  but it's great value and entertainment.   There’s no upselling and waiter recommendations are golden.  I for one can highly recommend their Tiramisu which tastes all the more delicious when eaten, seated on a zebra crossing with a statue of Padre Pio above your head. Metro: Colosseo. Closed Wednesdays. Ok for Vegetarians brave enough to unveil themselves.  Cheap Roman Cuisine with delicious bread from the Castelli. Menus provided!
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Ice cream's on me in Rome!

Escape like Princess Hepburn did with Peck

My first accommodation recommendation is a hidden gem, run by the family of a friend of mine, who inherited their rooftop apartment, from an ancestor who was a well-respected artist of his time. It's called "The Episcopo Lipinsky Bed and Breakfast." I know what you are thinking; not a very Roman name, sounds like an ex-president's church-going lover but bear with me.

Recently I watched Roman Holiday again and for the first time I recognised the rooftops outside Gregory Peck's escalator sized apartment where Audrey Hepburn sleeps in his pjs and quotes Shelley. Much of the film was shot in a tiny, hidden backstreet called Via Margutta in central Rome. Gregory's neighbours back in the 50's would have included Federico Fellini and the aforementioned artist's family. This tastefully refurbished B&B shares the same views and street as Gregory's place.

From street level, all a passerby sees is a ceramic wall-mounted Madonnina ( little statue of the Madonna), half- hidden under creepers, next to a large racing green wooden door, which seems to be the entrance to the period apartment building but in fact leads you into a secluded, lush courtyard garden full of palms, creepers and a number of blissed out cats. The apartments are behind the garden, backing onto the Borghese Gardens, Rome's largest central park. The location feels like a secret garden in a capital city centre and the views over Piazza del Popolo are a favourite with George Clooney, a regular guest at nearby Hotel di Russie.

So check it out on TripAdvisor. Reviews all fair in my opinion, even the American guest's negative review. It seemed almost apologetic for not appreciating the beauty and pedigree of the place. For sure, more luxury could be purchased elsewhere on the same budget but magic is priceless if you are a romantic such as myself, isn't it? A B&B in Rome means you can live like an aspiring Roman; you may see the bins by the entrance, wonder if the Hercule Poirot epoque lift will make it to the top floor, but you'll also feel the atmosphere of a genuine Roman Holiday gone by. Book well in advance as there are only two main suites and I can't keep my mouth shut about this place forever. Metro: Spagna
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Ice cream's on me in Rome!