Jason Cook"

Remember how Pippin wails, “But what ‘bout second breakfast?” at Aragorn in Lord of The Rings? That line’s our new in-joke about italian cappuccino.

Okay, so it’s not particularly novel to note how things are smaller in Europe than The States — after all, these divergent cultures respectively regard Smart Cars and Hummer H2s as acceptable, non-comedic commuter vehicles. Swap continents, though, and these cars would draw more laughs than a clown ambulance. (It’s probably been that way since classic Cinquecentos and Caddies first rolled onto the streets.)

So the car thing is obvious, but it’s the pervasiveness of this sizing switcheroo that’s harder to convey to folks back home: everything here, from shower stalls to soda cans, seems of skewed scale or diminished heft.

Right then. And what was that about Italian cappuccino?

Best. Coffee. Ever. And nobody who’s sampled it would ever argue the point.

And yet… coming from a country where the ‘Thirsty-Two Ouncer’ was long ago deprecated to a mere ‘medium’ versus a ‘large’ 64-oz. pail of carbonated beverage, a nation where the words ‘super’ and ‘size’ are not only combined, but also conjugated in an imperative verb form, and where a zillion Starbuckses huck percolated swill in ‘Venti‘-ounce units, I can’t help but have my heart sink, just a bit, every time i’m served my Morning Cup here.

‘Cause it’s better coffee, sure, and it’s better milk, no doubt, but it’s just so damn… dainty. Hell, I’ve seen Java Jackets boasting double the diameter of the cappuccino china here.

But you can’t order two. It’s bad manners, against the rules, something only silly stranieri would do. (As, btw, is ordering cappuccino after 11 or so in the morning.)

Hence the little Tolkien joke. Our solution, you see, is the hobbit-inspired ‘Second Breakfast’, cunning and conniving, and awfully elegant, too: we’re two-timing the local cappuccino bars.

We’ll have a cappuccio at the bar closest to home, happily trading the morning ‘buongiornos’ all around, quaffing our coffee, and then stealthily slip around the corner, where we repeat the routine, down to the last drop. Topping off the tanks, so to speak.

So is this gluttonous? Yeah, probably. But, then again, one doesn’t get to drink Italian coffee every day of their lives. Rr do they?

The pet store behind the market has a parakeet who screeches “Ciao!!” when you walk in the door. He’ll say other stuff in Italian, too. And for some reason, this impresses the hell outta me.

Vaguely similar: today, a vespa cruised past at quite a decent clip, carrying just an old man (a veritable geezer, in fact), the crook of his walking cane wrapped around his neck, and its staff clutched between his knees. We wagered he must’ve been clockin’ an honest 25-30mph, and that over cobblestones, to boot. bello!

Elsewhere, an introductory “Sharing Your Site with RSS” bit i wrote for Webmonkey is up.

The big news of late: our little ‘Pinguino’ just got delivered.

You see, old italian palazzos like ours lack internal HVAC infrastructure (obviously), but some still avoid the brutish business of jamming air-conditioners above every window and doorway. In these buildings, you’ll notice at least one window in every unit features a small, porthole-like opening.

Turns out that when temperatures start cranking towards summer, a white truck shows up and delivers a rather cute A/C unit (a.k.a. ‘the Penguin’) to your doorstep, complete with a handy vent-hose which attaches to the window-porthole-thingamabob.

Anyhow, having a squat, strictly-seasonal air conditioner suddenly appear in your living room, Tardis-style, is a kinda funny thing. At the moment, i’m terribly tempted to decorate it, like it’s a Christmas Tree, but for SummerTime…

How’s this for a gripping opening line: “Yesterday, i had the oddest haircut.”

Let me qualify that, then: I’ve had my fair share of curious coifs back home — attributable to whatever fast-and-loose franchising policy drove the relentless expansion of the so-called “Fantastic” Sams’ grooming enterprise.

This was a tad different: I was playing ‘barbershop roulette’, walking into a barbiere at random, but — keeping the metaphorical safety-switch on — I requested he simply shear my head with clippers (and at the basically-bald ‘0’ setting). Hairdo-wise, that’s a tough one to screw up.

And screw-ups there weren’t: I walked out the door with exactly the super-short buzz cut I had in mind stepping in. The experience, on the other hand, was unexpected.

Ever seen those East-German or Russian-made flashlights that don’t need batteries, but instead have a hand-crank built into the grip? They’re tiresome, but if you repeatedly squeeze one fast enough, it provides light enough to get you around in a blackout. (You’ll find them today at yuppie-friendly Restoration Hardware, of all places.)

Turns out the poor barber’s clipper set worked on the same principle, completely mechanical throughout. He had a whole set of ‘em, covered in bright chrome and really heavy-looking, each for a different hair length. Obviously, this barber was an older fellow, but his wrinkled hands got those things running speedily, so they’d whirr like a push lawnmower.

(Looking back on it, I now recall seeing men getting their hair cut with similar clippers in pokhara, nepal — but that town was used to being without electricity for days at a time.)

Well, it felt odd. And in fact somewhat unpleasant, since the clippers’ blades pulled pretty hard — more like a manually-powered depilatory device than hair-trimmers. The barber, though, was about as nice as they get, and we talked about the weather some.

Remember J.F. Sebastian’s little car in Blade Runner? The one not unlike a mini airport-shuttle van conversion, which Syd Mead had remodeled and re-shaped with his trademark rhomboid angles?

I did a double-take last week, certain that I’d spotted the thing jammed into a tight Trastevere parking spot. Now, any auto buff will tell you Rome’s streets sport many a moto-carriage cute and strange, this town being the nexus of All Roads and whatnot, but this particular futu-rustic transport looked to have surreptitiously rolled out of Epcot Center back in ‘78, and been on the ‘lam since.

Actually, turns out it’s British — an ‘Elswick Envoy’, to be exact. Of note, it’s accessibility-designed from the chassis up: devoid of seats and pedals, the hatchback trunk pops open for a wheelchair, while arm-height accellerator and brake controls protrude from the dash. Just load, lock, and drive — plus, you can park almost anywhere.

The other night, walking around the Vatican’s walled borders, we came across an overpass I’d noticed before, but never given any thought. There’s a flight of stairs leading to the top, which we climbed — to discover the most delightful, perfectly-manicured stretch of railroad this side of Anaheim, California. It was, of course, the last hundred meters of Vatican City’s private railway; shiny, shrubbery-lined tracks which exit from a batcave-like opening set high into a thick brick wall, sealed with a massive iron gate. It’s cool.

Climb the dome of St. Peter’s and you can see the rest of the rail line out back, a Disneyesque station and train collection, all the cuter from that vantage point, seemingly sized to a perfect H.O. scale.

Walking back from the outdoor market at Andrea Doria, Azure and I were accosted by a restaurant tout. With folded red napkins over one arm, and laminated English-language picture menus tucked into the other, these smooth-talking ‘waiters’ are actually seasoned cattle-drivers, their long days spent roundin’ up and herding bovine tourists into the (not-at-all) ‘Italian Ristorante’ joints around Vatican City.

This time around, the tout hadn’t finished the opening bars of “Hello Mister, Good Pizza For You…” before spotting stalks of fresh asparagus peeping from our bags — also heavy with roman artichokes, fennel bulbs, sage, shallots, garlic, carrots, fresh peas, and Sicilian pachino tomatoes, to boot — whereupon he completely dropped his spiel and instead began to jealously ogle the produce.

Meanwhile, a second tout ambled over, at first wildly waving some menus of his own, then stopping, abruptly, to also admire the inventory of our plastic-bag cornucopias.

“Man, you guys really eat well at your place!”, the one tells us, with the other nodding rapidly in agreement, putting the menus away, and adding “I think it’s always better, eating at home, anyways.”

Damn straight it is. Happy Easter!

Watching vespas jockey for position as they barrel down the Lungotevere, one realizes these fearless riders are indeed the cultural (if not genetic) inheritants of the whole Ben-Hur business of chariot racing.

Equally striking are the sharp yells and shouts piercing the din of scooter-noise: Some of it is just two chatty riders on the same bike, of course, but I’ve also seen solitary riders screaming monologues as they zoomed past.

Now, drop me into that Italian two-stroke Circus Maximus, and I’d no doubt wail like the lot of ‘em — in fear — but even then I could never match the emotional intensity of the Romans. The riders I’ve seen shouting aloud remind me more of ‘colorful’ old Berkeley, where large portions of the sidewalk citizenry engage in similarly loud dialogues with parties neither present nor real.

All of which i just discovered to be just half-true here: Turns out it’s de riguer for motorino pilots to squeeze, wiggle, and jam their teensy cellphones beneath their helmets, so they’re barely visible, but flush-up against the ear.

This, you see, lets them yap away on the cell tel. all the way to work (just like any other commuter), while it’s the ambient noise, of course, which necessitates the strange and dopplered yelling that I, odd pedestrian out, kept hearing on my morning stroll.

The most beautiful spot in Rome that I know is the Protestant Cemetary, a curiously silent and shaded place that’s kept hidden by the looming Cestius Pyramid, some crumbling remnants of the Aurelian wall, and a foreboding alleyway of shuttered nightclubs bordering the blue-collar Testaccio district.

The few visitors here generally arrive to see the grave of John Keats, buried, as per his instructions, under the epitaph “here lies one whose name was writ in water”. Shelley, too, lies nearby; he had earlier toured Keats’ tomb and exclaimed, “it might make one in love with death to know that one should be buried in so sweet a place”.

Azure and I mostly visit, though, to pet the resident cats, and to see, just once more again, the gravestone of Emelyn Story, a grieving marble angel that was carved by the hand of her husband, American sculptor William Story, whose own grave lies next to hers, and that of their young child, Joseph.

Hostaria ‘da Cesare’ is Rome’s equivalent to SF’s ‘Tadich Grill’ — a restaurant oddly immune to time, monumental certainly, but too slammed with customers to bother acting chic. The waiters here are all older gentlemen, who wear off-white tuxedo jackets, black bow ties, and a fair dash of hair pomade.

No, these guys are not in the business of smiles, chit-chat, or proffering Sir some “fresh ground pepper?”, but, that said, they’ll wordlessly de-bone a fish tableside in seconds, or grab a couple of inversed spoons to politely dish out a platter of veggies in an eyeblink.

Meat (veal, actually) is really what se mangia bene at da Cesare, but the seafood also ranks among the best in town. There’s only one serious veggie item — fettucini with fresh porcini mushrooms — but it sits prominently in the middle of the menu, distanced by a respectful amount of whitespace from the rest, and all for good reason: it’s very, very good fettucini.

We picked up a big chocolate egg today, from my favorite candy shop in town, cioccolateria Valzani, a slightly-worn mom-and-pop affair (well, grandmom-and-pop, now) tucked away on Via del Moro, in the Trastevere quarter.

Chocolate eggs are kinda their specialty: they’re only sold around easter, but Valzani stocks sun-faded Eggs-Of-Yore photos on the walls all year long. Plus, they’ve currently got a housemade four-foot-tall chocolate egg squatting stately by the cash register, a fine testament to how serious they are about this egg business, I’d say.

They’ve got competition, of course: every market in town is hawking choco-eggs of various sorts at the moment, the most intriguing being the only-for-easter, deluxe-sized version of Ferrero’s ‘Kinder Egg’ which weighs in 400% bigger than the sold-all-year-round variety, and with better surprises inside, to boot.

Still, I’ll stick with my humbler Valzani egg, if nothing but for the fact that they produce the meanest and baddest ‘Diavoletti al Peperoncini’ this side of the Tiber — them’s dark chocolate and crushed red pepper truffles. Double-plus good!

Came across a truly strange artifact on TV last night, while taking a breather from war coverage on RAI: the ‘Whacketts’ episode of Max Headroom, a now-quaint cyberpunk TV series from ‘87 which lasted a whole 12 episodes.

In retrospect, while Max Headroom’s dystopian production design may have been a ripoff of Blade Runner (hell, what isn’t, these days?), I think it’s still safe to say the series was way ahead of its time.

Yet as for why it’s still in rotation, in a somewhat decent timelsot (11ish), on a terrestrial broadcast network some 16 years after its cancellation in the U.S., I can’t say. Though the syn on the Italian dub is remarkably well done — as always.

As a matter of habit, and I think a good habit at that, Az and I take a stroll after dinner almost every night. (Fair disclosure: this may largely be driven by us not understanding anything on Italian TV.)

Our previous apartment was in Trastevere, old Rome, a corner of the city with twisting cobblestone alleys and a hoppin’ bar on every block. At 1am on a weeknight, you’d be walking shoulder-to-shoulder with swarms of upscale revellers, and Piazza Santa Maria would be filled with ragazzi drinking malt beverages (beer, yes, but also that smirnoff ice and campari mixx stuff) outta the bottle.

Now, though, we live right outside Vatican City, which is a whole different scene. It’s really quiet here at night — a good quiet, a serene quiet — and it’s nice to simply watch the illuminated fountains in St. Peter’s square and hear hushed conversations of the few other folks circling the piazza, hands clasped behind their backs.

Anyhow, here’s the thing: you don’t see much homelessness in Roma Centro. (At least, not compared to Oakland and SF.) Come nightfall, though, I see more wizened bag ladies and sagging-cardboard-box shelters around St. Peter’s than anywhere else, save perhaps the Termini train station.

I guess it’s the same thing as anywhere, really — church steps being refuge of last resort, a place to catch some winks without getting a boot in the ribs. Still, seeing people sleeping on the stoop of this particular cathedral, so completely dwarfed by its splendor… it’s just tragic to a whole ‘nother degree.

So what’s the haps, this March morning? Miniaturized Cornettos, for starters.

Apart from being standard breakfast fare for 99% of italians (cornetto morning rolls being the yin to a cappucinno’s yang), the word “Cornetto”™ also happens to be the Good Humor EuroBrand for a frozen confection not unlike the American Drumstick™ .

Now, we’re probably all in agreement that Drumsticks™ taste good. And so it is with Cornettos™ .

Anyhow, somebody in a lab coat thought these up: Cornetto ‘Minis’, i.e. Cornettos preternaturally shrunk to 1/5 scale. We’re talking expertly-crafted, fully miniaturized ice-cream cones, replete with wee nut pieces on top and nano-sized chocolate nibbles tucked into the sugar cone’s tiny apex. What other ice-cream treat begs to be admired with a 10-power loupe before consumption?

Obviously, I hold Cornetto Minis in pretty high esteem, and would regard them as a passable palate-cleanser course suitable for serving in the finest of restaurants. But these are foodstuffs for the folk, if you catch my drift, and thanks to the miracle of mass manufacture, I hereby predict that Cornetto Minis’ bite-size form factor will radically revolutionize ice-cream just like McNuggets done did to poultry.

Ummm.

What really mean to say is this: I have little business being in a supermarket when I’m hungry, I know that. And while by and large I’m still a sharp cookie, savvy shopper, etc., I’ll be damned if I didn’t come home yesterday having forgotten the red onions for Azure but clutching a box of very-meagerly-portioned ice cream thingies that even an oompah-loompah would sneer at.

Maybe they’re metric or something.

So Rome is noisy. From what I can tell, it’s really just three basic phonemes, sent in serial, and repeated ad nauseum: the flatulent exhaust of motorini throttling and scooting about, a panoply of poorly-chosen ringtones, and the constant, dopplered whines of ambulances.

One need ride a Roman taxi only for a minute, with a driver using his knees to steer, and gesticulating with both hands during a cellphone conversation, when suddenly it becomes startlingly obvious that a vicious cycle keeps these three noises in business.