To Rome, With Love

Let's be clear here. Italians schedule their train strikes.

I know this only because when we went Friday to get our train tickets to Rome for Sunday, we were informed there would be a strike from Saturday at 9 p.m. through Sunday at 9 p.m.

And since our plan had been to go to Rome Sunday afternoon, that wasn't going to work.

Rule one of an Italian (make that any) holiday: adjust.

So instead we took the train to Rome Saturday morning so we could have two nights eating in Rome.

Our hotel for the night got the holiday award for best loo with its extraordinary windows. Outside, shutters could be opened or closed but still let in air and some sound. Inside, polished mahogany shutters had glass insets in case you wanted a view on a  cool day.

I am in love with European windows and having them open everywhere from hospitals to subway cars.

I have yet to feel hermetically sealed in any Italian building.

At a hotel at which we did not stay, we got a recommendation for a place where, "The woman who cooks is 60 years old and the service is rude, but it's Roman food at its best."

Noisy atmosphere, surly service, perfectly-executed food? Isn't that how fans of Mama Zu describe it?

With a map and streetlights to read it by, we wound our way to a very old part of the city in search of Osteria della Suburra, a place overflowing with noise and people on a  warm Saturday evening.

It looked like every table inside was taken, but there were a couple of 2-tops outside free although a bunch of people were ahead of us waiting for tables.

With no clear system in place to get on a list, we were about to leave when the host caught our eye, raised two fingers and showed us to a table in the center of the crowded patio.

Things were so tight with people lolling in chairs having multi-hour meals that our server served us from the streetside rather than the patio itself.

We kept it rustic with the dark fruit of  a Solo Perto Primitivo di Maduria, a sidetrip for us to Puglia.

Then the Roman food began with an antipasto of "farm house hors d'oeuvres," meaning pickled vegetables, pearl onions, roasted peppers and the like followed by mattagliate (housemade noodles), mussels, fava beans and the ubiquitous ewe's cheese (another Pecorino).

Be still my heart.

The toothsome freshness of the flat, wide noodles had the kind of rough texture that practically collected the cheese and the fava beans were just this side of crunchy.

Even without the mussels, the beauty of the noodles, cheese and beans would have had this pasta-indifferent eater swooning, so the mussels were, metaphorically, gravy.

By the time we finished sharing the enormous primi plate, it was time to attack the secondi. Mixed offal of lamb cooked in wine and onion was made for our Primitivo.

The earthy elements of both (even when just sopping crusty bread in the broth), had me in mind of some of the Renaissance-era art we saw where lusty people ate dishes like this while swilling big red wines.

So as not to go straight to hell in a hand basket, we also got artichoke Roman style, which is to say olive oil, garlic and parsley.

Damn, the 60-year old was good, real good.

And here's the weird part. Not once did anyone get rude or surly with us. Our servers were smiling, pleasant and even nice, albeit not exactly hovering over us.

Given the lovely Roman night on a charming back street with people walking up and down the center of it all night, we didn't really need the waiter much.

When food was ready, they brought it and at the end they gave you the bill. God help us if there had been a restaurant strike, too.

If there's one thing I've learned here, it's that there's no work-around when you're talking about eating in Italy.

You eat every amazing thing they put in front of you and then you walk home past ancient architecture, elegant courtyards and arching fountains.

Thank you, train workers united.