Cow The Eternal City

Every week, I like to rename Rome, usually inspired by whatever has been the most frustrating, joyous or comical peak of my week, always favouring a one syllable word so the city doesn’t lose its ring.  Once I named it “Why?” after a week of mouthing the word, bemused expression trying to fathom all things bewildering in Rome, such as why the booking of hospital appointment is only achievable by visiting the hospital in person? Why when I activate the pedestrian crossing in Via Luisa di Savoia, after waiting 6 minutes and getting as far as the concrete island in the middle of the street I have to activate it once again and wait another 6 minutes, choking on exhaust fumes, to complete my crossing? I mean, do some people decide to stay on the island and not need to cross the whole street?  Once I named Rome “Nun” after spending an hour explaining the difference between a Bloody Mary and a Virgin Mary to one of Rome’s thousands of nuns in an English conversation class about cocktails.  Since January I’ve called it “Rain” as it just hasn’t stopped. Anyone visiting Rome this Spring might have thought they had been diverted to a grey Northern European destination as their plane touched down, rerouted by the Icelandic volcanic ash cloud which continues to hang like the Sword of Damocles over our summer holiday travel plans this year.  

Last Friday the sun finally came out and as I sat outside amidst an art installation which has been flying around the globe since 1998,defying the volcano by arriving here, I renamed the city once again:  “Cow” after the herds of sacred, funky fiberglass beasts grazing around the historic centre, sponsored by commerce,raising money for Help the Aged in Rome. This morning the pantene cow blocking the entrance to my supermarket reminded me I was out of shampoo. Moo!

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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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Mamma Mia stole the Bikers Thunder

I’ve yet to be convinced the uber-stylish residents of Rome really want to see herds of cyclists taking over their streets any time soon. I’d be the first to concede that I can resemble a giant 8 year-old, pedalling through the rain in my flowery Cath Kidson cag in a bag. Romans on scooters on the other hand, generally look effortlessly chic gliding around on what amounts to motorized display stands in some cases.  Those who flit around by car, with ubiquitous off-centre blue light above, relish the opportunity to boost Roma's negligible green bella figura  in Bruxelles by pretending to promote cycling around the historic centre.  I’ve always felt more than a little suspicious about their sincerity, never more than on Sunday last, when the voice of "Annual Roma Bike Day" was drowned out by the deafening horn of Festa della Mamma (Mother's Day).  Fortuitous schedule clash? I think not.

The common push bike, albeit an eco-friendly superstar,  couldn't hope to compete with such a mighty adversary as the Roman mother, especially as Roman men even by national standards are considered to be “Mammoni da Guinness” (record-breaking big mummies).  The questionable English press once reported a growing trend: Roman men were choosing to live at home with Mamma well into their late-thirties to save money for beauty-enhancing plastic surgery, namely the addition of an essential dimple in their chins (and still I came to live here...)  This smacks of shameless stereotyping although the first part is indeed true. In a city where jobs are often won in competitions, inherited from dead relatives or commonly offer no more than pocket money to adults with PHDs, where would they be without their Mammas? Even Julius Caesar had to call on his for backup when he found himself on the wrong side of a Roman dictator.  Families are as economically important as spiritually here and Mamma or more effectively "Nonna" (grandmother) are the big guns behind all domestic operations.


So if you are planning an awareness day in the eternal city, the secret is to check your calendar and don't go head on with Mamma or heaven forbid Nonna.  There's a proverb which says, " A man loves his sweetheart the most, his wife the best and his mother the longest."  Never could this be more true than in Rome, every day of the year.

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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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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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