Recently in Rome Category

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.