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.

 IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST,  SUBSCRIBE VIA EMAIL OR
TO POSTS VIA FEED. Ice cream's on me in Rome!

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.

 IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST,  SUBSCRIBE VIA EMAIL OR
TO POSTS VIA FEED. Ice cream's on me in Rome!

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. 

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST,  SUBSCRIBE VIA EMAIL OR

TO POSTS VIA FEED. Ice cream's on me in Rome!

Beware the Ides of Wholemeal Carbonara

There’s no greater way to strike terror into a Roman’s heart than by declaring your intention to rustle him up a little something in the kitchen, without using a recipe. No menu in a restaurant means homemade delights but no recipe in the kitchen means red alert. As part of my transition from precise, reliable Briton to abstract Roman, I’m now embracing their ideology that anything official is in fact a suggestion; opening times, speed limits, road markings, invoices, terms of use, consumer rights, but apparently a recipe is holier than a scripture, carved into Dolomite marble. It is timeless, exempt from evolution and must be followed to the letter.  To a Roman, no recipe means it doesn’t exist and it never will.

 For one such as myself, whose cooking style is more suited to cauldron than saucepan, the idea of zero creativity in the kitchen is inconceivable but when I glimpsed the panic in my Roman victim’s eyes (nickname “Gastro-gnome”) as I announced my intention to experiment with Carbonara, I decided to search on-line for a  hasty compromise. Here I found Luigi, traditional Roman chef at Ristorante Giancarlone ,  a small restaurant not far from my apartment. I watched a video of him effortlessly conjuring up the mythical dish while warning kitchen clowns like myself, not to stray from the Carbonara recipe.(Watch How To Make a Real Carbonara with Luigi with English subtitles) His nettled tone communicates that he’s said it a thousand times and he's saying it again for the slow student at the back of the class.  The quantity of pasta is precise, the maturity of cheese is non-negotiable and don’t even think about separating the eggs! 

I watched and studied Luigi's performance, thinking his boss Giancarlone (Big John Charles)  would probably take a contract out on England’s most successful TV chef (Delia Smith) if he saw her recipe. I considered cycling round to see him for more tips, but in the end I rationalized: how difficult could it really be?  My final result had a certain fascination of its own: a type of scrambled egg and chopped bacon spaghetti dish which Gastro-gnome will forever refer to as my “Nuclear Carbonara” I have to admit, James Taylor and Jackson Browne would have scheduled another No Nukes rally in Battery Park had they seen it. A postmortem revealed Luigi hadn’t been precise enough about the type of spaghetti required. I had used wholemeal which had arrogantly disassociated itself from the sauce. The sauce had then taken on an unsavoury life of its own, having been snubbed by the pasta. Gastro-gnome chastised me. Really! Anyone would have thought I’d tried to smuggle in some cream!

The next of my restaurant recommendations knows how to make a great Roman carbonara. Maccheroni, near the Pantheon makes delicious Roman fare with side dishes which are more imaginative than most. I’m always bored by Roman mixed salads but here they are a little more creative and big enough to share. Maccheroni is versatile, sophisticated and relaxed. Go early and have an aperitivo in the beautiful Piazza delle Coppelle  in which it’s situated. If you want to avoid making “Nuclear Carbonara”, ask for a seat with a view of the kitchen. It’s  a feature of the restaurant . You can watch a great culinary performance while you eat. Just don't forget to silently applaud or wave a breadstick at the end.

Maccheroni. Open every day. Recommend reserving a table. Great for daft vegetarians like myself. Price: mid-range. 10 mins walk from Via del Corso. No metro. 

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST,  SUBSCRIBE VIA EMAIL OR
TO POSTS VIA FEED. Ice cream's on me in Rome!

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!
IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST,  SUBSCRIBE VIA EMAIL NOW
at the top of this website on the right. No post, no email. 
Ice cream's on me in Rome!