In a place like Italy, you would be wise to take the word of people who know.
That's how we'd eaten at Cafe Duomo and Osteria della Suburra and had wonderful meals.
Tonight I reverted to a favorite source, Tom Sietsema of "The Washington Post."
After last night's traditional take on Roman eats, we wanted a more modern interpretation for this, our final dinner.
Based on his "Postcard from Rome" installment, we took our first taxi of this trip to Ristorante Ditirambo on the Piazza della Cancellerio.
One look as we got out of the cab and we knew we'd been steered right.
As is typical, a small but charming patio fronted several brightly-lit rooms inside and the smells emanating from there were intoxicating.
Further proof that it was our kind of place was the massive wine list which provided too many good choices for one night.
Eventually, I chose a Sicilian, only this time our server expressed no disgust for not choosing a more local grape.
Remembering how much we'd like the Occhipinti we'd had at our farewell dinner at Ipanema the night before coming to Italy, I chose another of the young winemaker's offerings.
This time it was the SP 68 A. Occhipinti, a blend of Frappato and Nero d'Avola and an excellent choice if I do say so myself.
My partner in crime was sold from the first beautifully floral notes and from there we savored the fresh, earthy red fruit flavors and gloated over our luck in finding it.
From there things got even better.
An antipasto of seafood showed the kitchen's modern take on classic Roman food.
Octopus salad with ginger skewed Asian, while vegetable tartare with shrimp and lime was a nod to Mexicali.
Smoked salt cod with red peppercorns was the closest to a traditional take and the smoked amberjack carpaccio with fennel and orange was melt-in-your mouth silky.
After so generous a first plate, we took a break to watch the street theater and sip our vino before proceeding.
Next up was pappardelle made with spelt flour and covered in a rabbit meat sauce with sun-dried tomatoes and (yet again) ewe's cheese.
I can now say I understand the etymology of the word pappardelle, deriving as it does from "pappare," meaning to gobble up.
And gobble we did.
The broad, flat, fettuccine-like noodles in this clever take on a Bolognese sauce was once again making this pasta-indifferent eater obsessed with noodles.
The rabbit and sun-dried tomato sauce was spot-on, meaty and sweet and deliciously delivered via the wide noodles.
If I was uninterested in pasta before this trip, I think it'll only be harder to find any I can love once we get home.
But we'll see.
The Scandinavian girls at the table next to us seemed to be enjoying their food and wine every bit as much as we were and beyond them, we didn't much notice anyone else.
With food and wine like this for our final night of holiday, it was difficult at best to do anything but focus on the tiny table in front of us.
Eventually we moved on to dessert, a hazelnut mousse as well as a chocolate mousse so thick as to be halfway to gelato, but no complaints were heard from either of us.
Well, maybe just one small thing didn't sit well.
Tomorrow we go home.
All good things must come to an end...at least for the short term.
Showing posts with label rome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rome. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
No Time for Confession Today
It was time for some quick change action.
After only two hotels over the course of nearly two weeks, we were now doing two hotels in two days. Checking into the Hotel Tokyo, the lively little man checking us in took note of my name, repeating it not once but twice.
When I nodded yes, he came around from behind the desk to shake my hand warmly. When he went on to look at my passport, he took note of my birthday.
"You are Gemini!" he exclaimed and I nodded again. :"Very nice! Many liberties! Yes, Gemini! I am Gemini, too." Seems I'd made a fan without doing anything more than showing up with my passport.
After depositing our belongings in the room, we headed out for an afternoon exploring Rome.
Lunch was the first order of the day, breakfast having been nothing but clementines. Ristorante Strega beckoned with an empty patio at the end of a street next to the imposing Department of the Interior.
The meal was simple - a salad of tuna, tomato and onion followed by a very thin-crusted pizza of speck, Mozzarella and smoked Mozzarella accompanied by Coke in bottles. As we ate, we watched the shadow of a cat prancing and arching above us on the canopy draped over the patio while some nearby bambinos giggled at its antics.
Feeling much better now, we departed to conquer Rome. Given its size, the lack of preparation (we hadn't expected a whole day here) and our late start, I let a street poster do the choosing for us.
"Vermeer," was notable because the greatest Dutch painter of the 17th century is not represented in any Italian collection. Turns out he hadn't been the subject of a show here before, either. I'm sure they think why look northward when you've got so many of your own artists on which to focus?
So that put us in a long line to buy tickets, no doubt behind many more Italians than tourists. The show was stellar, with never and rarely seen works by the master as well as 50 paintings by his Dutch contemporaries.
Some I knew - Metsu, de Hooch, ter Borch- and many I didn't but now do - Vosmaer, de Witte, van der Poel. Many of the early townscapes dealt with the explosion of 1654, where apparently a storehouse of gunpowder went off, killing many and drastically altering the landscape around the area, all documented in light-filled scenes.
The show was easily one of the most beautifully hung I've ever seen. Towering panels painted shades of blue, green and purple stood side by side with one painting per panel and Vermeer's paintings always on purple.
The show's signature image, "Girl with a Red Hat," I knew well since it's in the collection of the National Gallery of Art in Washington.
But "Young Woman Seated at a Virginal" is part of a private collection, so that's one I might never have seen if not in Rome today. "Lute Player" of a dressed-up young woman waiting for a man who will play the viola de gamba with her (an instrument I know only because of the UR performance I saw here) is an exquisite study in light and shadow.
His earliest work shown was "Saint Praxedis," a biblical work so unlike his later household scenes, but a clear harbinger of the talent that was to come. "The Girl with the Wineglass" was such a household scene, albeit one where seduction was unfolding before the viewer as a man fawns over a beautiful woman who is smiling at us in between sips of wine.
It seems to make the point that it is good to be fawned over. I wouldn't argue with that.
By the time we finished seeing it all, we were eager to get some walking in and headed back to the ancient quarter and the largest Catholic church in Rome, no small distinction in a city with at least two dozen Roman Catholic churches.
Built in the fifth century in the Roman style, I thought Santa Maria Maggiore's best side was the approach on the Piazza dell'Esquilio, with wide steps approaching the apse side from the street. Inside, we were amazed to find services going on in a small chapel on the left of the main altar even as visitors milled about, some even snapping pictures as the congregants sang hymns.
Walking around the massive ancient interior, we admired mosaics, a triumphal arch and a coffered ceiling that must have inspired awe from the first moment a mere human saw something so grand. Confessionals indicated which languages were spoken in each.
Leaving the church, we began heading back for our final meal in the eternal city. There was no point in even trying to cram in anything else today.
Clearly Rome is worthy of a trip all by itself. Someday.
After only two hotels over the course of nearly two weeks, we were now doing two hotels in two days. Checking into the Hotel Tokyo, the lively little man checking us in took note of my name, repeating it not once but twice.
When I nodded yes, he came around from behind the desk to shake my hand warmly. When he went on to look at my passport, he took note of my birthday.
"You are Gemini!" he exclaimed and I nodded again. :"Very nice! Many liberties! Yes, Gemini! I am Gemini, too." Seems I'd made a fan without doing anything more than showing up with my passport.
After depositing our belongings in the room, we headed out for an afternoon exploring Rome.
Lunch was the first order of the day, breakfast having been nothing but clementines. Ristorante Strega beckoned with an empty patio at the end of a street next to the imposing Department of the Interior.
The meal was simple - a salad of tuna, tomato and onion followed by a very thin-crusted pizza of speck, Mozzarella and smoked Mozzarella accompanied by Coke in bottles. As we ate, we watched the shadow of a cat prancing and arching above us on the canopy draped over the patio while some nearby bambinos giggled at its antics.
Feeling much better now, we departed to conquer Rome. Given its size, the lack of preparation (we hadn't expected a whole day here) and our late start, I let a street poster do the choosing for us.
"Vermeer," was notable because the greatest Dutch painter of the 17th century is not represented in any Italian collection. Turns out he hadn't been the subject of a show here before, either. I'm sure they think why look northward when you've got so many of your own artists on which to focus?
So that put us in a long line to buy tickets, no doubt behind many more Italians than tourists. The show was stellar, with never and rarely seen works by the master as well as 50 paintings by his Dutch contemporaries.
Some I knew - Metsu, de Hooch, ter Borch- and many I didn't but now do - Vosmaer, de Witte, van der Poel. Many of the early townscapes dealt with the explosion of 1654, where apparently a storehouse of gunpowder went off, killing many and drastically altering the landscape around the area, all documented in light-filled scenes.
The show was easily one of the most beautifully hung I've ever seen. Towering panels painted shades of blue, green and purple stood side by side with one painting per panel and Vermeer's paintings always on purple.
The show's signature image, "Girl with a Red Hat," I knew well since it's in the collection of the National Gallery of Art in Washington.
But "Young Woman Seated at a Virginal" is part of a private collection, so that's one I might never have seen if not in Rome today. "Lute Player" of a dressed-up young woman waiting for a man who will play the viola de gamba with her (an instrument I know only because of the UR performance I saw here) is an exquisite study in light and shadow.
His earliest work shown was "Saint Praxedis," a biblical work so unlike his later household scenes, but a clear harbinger of the talent that was to come. "The Girl with the Wineglass" was such a household scene, albeit one where seduction was unfolding before the viewer as a man fawns over a beautiful woman who is smiling at us in between sips of wine.
It seems to make the point that it is good to be fawned over. I wouldn't argue with that.
By the time we finished seeing it all, we were eager to get some walking in and headed back to the ancient quarter and the largest Catholic church in Rome, no small distinction in a city with at least two dozen Roman Catholic churches.
Built in the fifth century in the Roman style, I thought Santa Maria Maggiore's best side was the approach on the Piazza dell'Esquilio, with wide steps approaching the apse side from the street. Inside, we were amazed to find services going on in a small chapel on the left of the main altar even as visitors milled about, some even snapping pictures as the congregants sang hymns.
Walking around the massive ancient interior, we admired mosaics, a triumphal arch and a coffered ceiling that must have inspired awe from the first moment a mere human saw something so grand. Confessionals indicated which languages were spoken in each.
Leaving the church, we began heading back for our final meal in the eternal city. There was no point in even trying to cram in anything else today.
Clearly Rome is worthy of a trip all by itself. Someday.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Gaskets or Bust
And so the journey begins.
October 1/12:32
On the way to Dulles, I hear, "That's the reason I'm going to Italy. I have to get Nan's coffee maker gaskets."
So I am going to Italy for the first time to be a party to obtaining some $2.00 rubber seals unavailable in the States.
Fine, then. The reason is immaterial. I am going to Italy.
My life-long passion for art history, the focus of (let's be real here) almost five years of my life spent studying (with assorted extra-cirricular activities interspersed) is finally going to achieve ultimate satisfaction with two weeks to see all the things I know solely from slides and books.
Plus we will bring back coffee maker gaskets.
October 1/1:30
In Dulles, in line to check baggage at Air France, I watch as one confused person after another inquires of a handsome but expressionless Air France employee.
Finally, I can't help but ask, "Is your job to help clueless people?"
His impassivity melts and he breaks into a face-splitting smile including major dimples. "Yes," he answers.
Walking toward the baggage check-in, a ticketing agent catches my eye and smiles widely.
Coincidentally, he is the ticket agent we get when we reach the front of the line.
"We've met before," I say, handing him my underpacked bag."Yes, indeed," he says grinning. When he hears our destination, he is even more enthusiastic, wishing he were also headed there.
Finally through Security (and an hysterical incident with my partner involving a full body pat-down and any number of lewd references), we decide lunch is in order.
I suggest a meal unlike anything we will eat for the next two weeks and we land at Five Guys, only my second time there ever.
Today's potatoes are from Royal City, Washington, which is not half as big a deal as the size of a "regular" french fry.
I'd like to go on record as saying that when a serving of fries nearly fills a brown paper lunch bag, we need to do a lot more than plant a White House garden.
Finally on board Air France, I begin "Chanel: A Woman of Her Own," but eventually succumb to a French comedy.
"The Chef" is a film about a talented but hapless man with a talent for food but little tolerance for diners with no taste for adventure ("You hit a man for ordering his veal medium.")
But the chef's brilliance is how he hears and feels emotion in food, telling his 3-Michelin star mentor about his ex-wife, "Since Charlotte left you, your sauces are stagnant."
If ever there was proof of the importance of the right woman, it is the effect her departure has on a man's sauces.
Metaphor intended.
Before I knew it, the flight ended and it was midnight in Paris.
We landed in a light drizzle and if ever there was a romantic place to be at that hour, this was it.
AlItalia got us to Rome not long after sunrise, an equally impressive feeling.
In the first half an hour in the Rome airport, I saw more priests than I have seen in the past twenty years.
I remain no less lapsed a Catholic than before all the men in black and white, but it was startling nonetheless.
Taking a commuter train to the train station, I get my first glimpses of Italy from the ground.
From my window, I see scores of apartment buildings with two things in common.
Nearly all of them have balconies and they are crowded with planters, window boxes and every kind of container to hold lush, trailing, colorfully flowering plants.
Each balcony is a study in lush container gardening.
In marked contrast to that is the more mundane, but no less charming, laundry.
Clothes lines are strung up between windows, on balconies, over guardrails, on wooden racks and practically any place where clothes can hang to dry.
Frequently, I see blankets and bedspreads airing off a balcony rail.
Flowers and wet clothes follow the train into the Rome train station.
It's a bustling place with Italian women in impossibly high shoes and boots, men who brazenly check out women from hair to toenails and pigeons strolling around the terminal.
October 2/11:25
The high speed Frecciarosa train bullets us through a picture-perfect Italian landscape to Florence.
Before we leave the station, I have need of a facility and use my first pay (one euro) bathroom, although I miscalculate and end up in the men's room unbeknownst to me.
Only after I exit the stall does a friendly attendant notice and apologize as if he'd made the error.
He graciously leads me out, no doubt already realizing what a great story this will be to share with coworkers.
I, for the record, am not the slightest bit embarrassed, but rather glad to have relieved myself.
The B & B is small (eight rooms), the hostess is a scooter-riding Italian character who serves us almond cake while we wait for our room to be readied.
It is at this point that our 21-hour odyssey catches up and we open the balcony door and collapse on to the bed for an epic mid-afternoon Italian nap.
The siesta acts like a tonic on us, allowing us to head out into the Florence evening with renewed enthusiasm and faith in ourselves.
Because it is early evening, everyone is out promenading and although we pass any number of Renaissance marvels, I am not ready to take them in except as foreground for a magnificent sky of gray-blue clouds.
After wandering for just the right amount of time, we head to Trattoria al Trebbio, a candlelit space almost full of happy-looking diners.
The first day gods are smiling on us and we are able to get a table in the charming and romantic little patio in the center of where two narrow streets intersect near Santa Maria Novella.
There are only seven tables and traffic of all kinds - scooters, cars and pedestrian- go by on two sides.
At one point, a car attempts to make left turn and a diner turns her head and from three feet away from the car, calmly says, "This is a one-way street."
The car backs up and heads down another street.
Meanwhile we order a bottle of Calafuria Rosato del Salento to toast our home for the next fortnight.
A pear and Pecorino salad over rocket and carrot hits all the right sweet and salty notes.
Italian pulled pork with vegetables in oil is a lesson in pig.
Unlike our American shredded version, this is thinly-sliced pig in a delicate au jus with artichokes and rocket.
Crusty bread enables us to get as much au jus as humanly possible.
As we sit there people watching, I am struck by how stylish even older couples look and how much hand-holding I see.
As we finished the pork, an accordion player took up his post across the street, as if on cue.
Come on Florence, don't be trite.
Wining and dining has left us little room for dessert, so we opt for a fresh fruit salad of kiwi, grapes, pineapple, peaches and pears, a fine European way to end two very long days.
And the best is yet to come.
October 1/12:32
On the way to Dulles, I hear, "That's the reason I'm going to Italy. I have to get Nan's coffee maker gaskets."
So I am going to Italy for the first time to be a party to obtaining some $2.00 rubber seals unavailable in the States.
Fine, then. The reason is immaterial. I am going to Italy.
My life-long passion for art history, the focus of (let's be real here) almost five years of my life spent studying (with assorted extra-cirricular activities interspersed) is finally going to achieve ultimate satisfaction with two weeks to see all the things I know solely from slides and books.
Plus we will bring back coffee maker gaskets.
October 1/1:30
In Dulles, in line to check baggage at Air France, I watch as one confused person after another inquires of a handsome but expressionless Air France employee.
Finally, I can't help but ask, "Is your job to help clueless people?"
His impassivity melts and he breaks into a face-splitting smile including major dimples. "Yes," he answers.
Walking toward the baggage check-in, a ticketing agent catches my eye and smiles widely.
Coincidentally, he is the ticket agent we get when we reach the front of the line.
"We've met before," I say, handing him my underpacked bag."Yes, indeed," he says grinning. When he hears our destination, he is even more enthusiastic, wishing he were also headed there.
Finally through Security (and an hysterical incident with my partner involving a full body pat-down and any number of lewd references), we decide lunch is in order.
I suggest a meal unlike anything we will eat for the next two weeks and we land at Five Guys, only my second time there ever.
Today's potatoes are from Royal City, Washington, which is not half as big a deal as the size of a "regular" french fry.
I'd like to go on record as saying that when a serving of fries nearly fills a brown paper lunch bag, we need to do a lot more than plant a White House garden.
Finally on board Air France, I begin "Chanel: A Woman of Her Own," but eventually succumb to a French comedy.
"The Chef" is a film about a talented but hapless man with a talent for food but little tolerance for diners with no taste for adventure ("You hit a man for ordering his veal medium.")
But the chef's brilliance is how he hears and feels emotion in food, telling his 3-Michelin star mentor about his ex-wife, "Since Charlotte left you, your sauces are stagnant."
If ever there was proof of the importance of the right woman, it is the effect her departure has on a man's sauces.
Metaphor intended.
Before I knew it, the flight ended and it was midnight in Paris.
We landed in a light drizzle and if ever there was a romantic place to be at that hour, this was it.
AlItalia got us to Rome not long after sunrise, an equally impressive feeling.
In the first half an hour in the Rome airport, I saw more priests than I have seen in the past twenty years.
I remain no less lapsed a Catholic than before all the men in black and white, but it was startling nonetheless.
Taking a commuter train to the train station, I get my first glimpses of Italy from the ground.
From my window, I see scores of apartment buildings with two things in common.
Nearly all of them have balconies and they are crowded with planters, window boxes and every kind of container to hold lush, trailing, colorfully flowering plants.
Each balcony is a study in lush container gardening.
In marked contrast to that is the more mundane, but no less charming, laundry.
Clothes lines are strung up between windows, on balconies, over guardrails, on wooden racks and practically any place where clothes can hang to dry.
Frequently, I see blankets and bedspreads airing off a balcony rail.
Flowers and wet clothes follow the train into the Rome train station.
It's a bustling place with Italian women in impossibly high shoes and boots, men who brazenly check out women from hair to toenails and pigeons strolling around the terminal.
October 2/11:25
The high speed Frecciarosa train bullets us through a picture-perfect Italian landscape to Florence.
Before we leave the station, I have need of a facility and use my first pay (one euro) bathroom, although I miscalculate and end up in the men's room unbeknownst to me.
Only after I exit the stall does a friendly attendant notice and apologize as if he'd made the error.
He graciously leads me out, no doubt already realizing what a great story this will be to share with coworkers.
I, for the record, am not the slightest bit embarrassed, but rather glad to have relieved myself.
The B & B is small (eight rooms), the hostess is a scooter-riding Italian character who serves us almond cake while we wait for our room to be readied.
It is at this point that our 21-hour odyssey catches up and we open the balcony door and collapse on to the bed for an epic mid-afternoon Italian nap.
The siesta acts like a tonic on us, allowing us to head out into the Florence evening with renewed enthusiasm and faith in ourselves.
Because it is early evening, everyone is out promenading and although we pass any number of Renaissance marvels, I am not ready to take them in except as foreground for a magnificent sky of gray-blue clouds.
After wandering for just the right amount of time, we head to Trattoria al Trebbio, a candlelit space almost full of happy-looking diners.
The first day gods are smiling on us and we are able to get a table in the charming and romantic little patio in the center of where two narrow streets intersect near Santa Maria Novella.
There are only seven tables and traffic of all kinds - scooters, cars and pedestrian- go by on two sides.
At one point, a car attempts to make left turn and a diner turns her head and from three feet away from the car, calmly says, "This is a one-way street."
The car backs up and heads down another street.
Meanwhile we order a bottle of Calafuria Rosato del Salento to toast our home for the next fortnight.
A pear and Pecorino salad over rocket and carrot hits all the right sweet and salty notes.
Italian pulled pork with vegetables in oil is a lesson in pig.
Unlike our American shredded version, this is thinly-sliced pig in a delicate au jus with artichokes and rocket.
Crusty bread enables us to get as much au jus as humanly possible.
As we sit there people watching, I am struck by how stylish even older couples look and how much hand-holding I see.
As we finished the pork, an accordion player took up his post across the street, as if on cue.
Come on Florence, don't be trite.
Wining and dining has left us little room for dessert, so we opt for a fresh fruit salad of kiwi, grapes, pineapple, peaches and pears, a fine European way to end two very long days.
And the best is yet to come.
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