Field of Flowers in the inner city

Campo dei Fiori is an odd little anomaly, for it is one of those few places in Rome where tourism and genuine Italian culture live together without stepping too much on each others toes. Certainly, the reputation of the Drunken Ship bar, infamous for being a hub for drunk Americans (although why this more than others, I fear to wonder) and the coinciding nightlife, is apt to cause one to assume that it is just another spot for college students looking for a party.

However, going to Campo dei Fiori during its regular market hours, one finds an atmosphere that is really rather calm. There are typically many “stranieri” (“foreigners”), who come to this piazza to witness a glimpse of Italy’s outdoor market culture. At first glance, the market could easily be mistaken for a tourist trap – a large stand, selling trinkets and Roma T-shirts, as well as Michelangelo’s “David” apron or boxer-briefs, dominates a large portion of the piazza to snatch tourists. And the number of blond-haired, sneaker shod, sun-burnt (although not so much at this time of year) SLR-Camera-laden tourists stumbling through the piazza with shiny wallets and awkward Italian phrases offer an entertaining distraction.

Looking beyond the shiny, skin-deep exterior, however, the outdoor market is nevertheless authentically Italian. After three years, the street vendor knows me, and has long lost his initial impatience with my Americanness. In spite of the fact that he has the smallest selection of vegetables of everyone, I can’t go to any other vendor in the piazza without feeling as though I’m being unfaithful. Then there is the large lady who sells cheese and cured meats. Regardless of what I am ordering, she always offers a piece of parmagiano or prosciutto, helping herself to a piece saying “molto buono. E’ molto buono”. At one hidden corner of the piazza is the best pizza alla tavola one can find – Pizza del Forno. It is the San’ Eustacchio of Pizza, except it lives up to its reputation even better (in my opinion). And if one is not in the mood for pizza, the Forno offers fresh-baked bread – as reasonably priced as you will find – and extraordinarily hearty and fresh and perfect. The Campo is scattered with little specialties of Italian cuisine, simple or exotic, all flavoured with the good nature of the Italians who offer them.

One feels oddly safe in Campo dei Fiori (despite being brooded over by the dark, hooded, melancholic little heretic, Giordano Bruno). The Italians are friendly and generous. These are men and women selling food on the street, or from hole-in-the-wall shops, and the take pride in their work – for good reason. Through the clutter of tourism, the life, the genuine heart of Italy, still flourishes.

A Pontifical Thanksgiving

As incredible as Italian cuisine can be, no American living in Italy can avoid the opportunity to have real down-home country American fare – at least, not on Thanksgiving Day. Still, it is a challenge to replicate a traditional Thanksgiving meal in a country that does not understand stuffing, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, and why we must have a Turkey.

The process of preparing Thanksgiving is a team effort; even the Turkey required four people and a handful of confused Italian priests in order to come to its full realization. First, there is the process of ordering the bird, one that is the right size, and is whole (Italians don’t always understand that the process of roasting the whole bird, rather than in pieces, makes a big difference). Then, once the pre-ordered bird has arrived at the butcher, there is the process of trying to explain (in broken Italian no less) that you would appreciated it indeed if the head, claws, and any indicants that it was once a living animal that had eyes and feet.

Then, there is the process of cooking the bird. For this, our little Thanksgiving Team was fortunate to have the help of a local parish Community House, complete with dining hall and an industrial-sized kitchen. Surrounded by curious eyes and lots of mutterings in Italian, I rinsed the 17-pound bird, gently lifted the skin and reached up to my elbows to spread an herb garlic butter between the meat and the skin, and stuffed the insides with onions, garlic, celery, and whatever herbs I could get my hands on. Aside from some excessive poking on the part of an Italian which let a few too many juices out, the Turkey came out of the oven smelling divine and tasting even better.

At the meal, there was stuffing, Pumpkin Pie, green-beans, bread rolls, and many other odds and ends of Thanksgiving goodness, all surrounding a massive home-cooked Turkey. However, what makes Thanksgiving significant is the togetherness, the joining of family and friends together over a good home-cooked meal. It’s an element of American culture that many foreign cultures think that we lack, when in fact it is as integral to us as to anyone else. For us Americans, especially those of us living in Rome, Thanksgiving is the opportunity to share this community element with people from other cultures, in a way that only Americans can.

In Vino Veritas

Anyone walking through Trastevere on a Friday evening will be forced to endure a ruckus. Students from John Cabot´s American University spill out of bars with glasses and bottles in hand, filling the ancient streets with a noisy, stumbling crowd. The stylish mess of drunkenness tumbling through the ancient neighborhood -- the wealthy elitism, the refusal to learn the language, the sense of entitlement, the unrestrained liberation -- paints a picture of America that is not accurate, but nevertheless is a reaction to something truly present in American culture: the Puritan ideology upon with the country was founded. And these Puritanical roots affected -- among other things -- the way in which Americans view the culture of alcohol.

Although most of the States in the US have relaxed their attitude towards alcohol in that very few places consider it to be the ¨demon liquor¨ (the south still retains remnants of this Puritan attitude), the laws that are in place are strict but misleading; the legal drinking age of 21 is so strictly enforced that if an estrablishment forgets to ask for the ID of anyone who looks under the age of 30, they can be thrown in prison. Drinking is seen as something which the government and Fundamentalist Christians seek to restrict. To drink at all -- especially if underage -- is seen as rebellious. As a result, young adults who have had restrictions imposed on them without having been taught temperance come to Rome, and the result is the drunken feast that one too regularly witnesses on the streets of Rome.

In contrast to the repressed drinking culture of the States that promotes unrestraint and irresponsibility, is the drinking culture of Italy. During an Italian meal, for instance, the wine will flow quite liberally -- yet, the result is a relaxed appreciation for the food and company. One can not only comfortably go to a wine bar alone without appearing to be an alcoholic, but an hour can pass with a good book before the first glass is finished; and after that first glass, one feels more than content. Italian culture lends itself to moderate drinking because wine is recognized as an intrinsic good, and with this recognition, moderation naturally follows.

The contrast between Italian and American cultures in regards to drinking is more than an issue of law and ideology. It offers a small insight into what the effect can be when something that is intrinsically neutral -- even intrinsically good -- is overly restricted by the culture. In America, wine is seen as something that is enjoyable but not intrinsically good; therefore, the result is rebellion that does not understand the value of moderation when applied to a good thing. In Italy, on the other hand, moderation comes naturally, for it is understood that wine is intrinsically good. And its quite a Catholic idea, really: how could any culture that believes in Transubstantiation not believe that wine is a good thing?

'Wastin away again in Margaritaville'*

One of the unfortunate elements of blogging about food is the occasional need for research. For this, I made the long treck down to Pompeii, where the day was concluded with a meal at a southern pizzeria. Because my father, who came to Italy many times throughout his military service, had always told me that the margerita pizza of southern Italy was the best pizza in all the world, I knew that I could not disapoint my father and leave Pompei without trying it.

And I was not disapointed. Unlike the Roman pizzas which tend to be much thinner, the southern pizzas are cooked on a much heartier bread. The mozzerella was melted into a cream, lightliy fermented and hinted into a perfectly mild tartness. The tomatoes were flavorful and organic. And the basil, scattered only lightly throughout, nevertheless filled the entirety of the experience with aromatic splendor.

The Margarita Pizza is not simply a joy of pizziastical simplicity, however. Its creation, in fact, marks an important landmark in modern culinary history in Italy . . . and consequently the rest of the world.

In spite of pizzas being associated with Italy, the plain flatbread (otherwise known as foccacia) was a Greek invention. Due to its inexpensive heartiness, however, this plain flatbread was often sold to the peasants in the southern regions of Italy -- such as Naples (one should also take note that America can claim responsibility for existence of tomatoes in Italian fare, thank you very much, but that is another post for another day).

It was during a visit to Naples in 1889 that Italy's Queen Margaret, traveling with her husband, Umberto I, took a liking to this simple peasant fare. Since such a liking was a faux pas for a queen, she arranged for her cheif -- Rafaelle Esposito -- to come up with a version of this peasant's flatbread that would be more suitable for royalty. Of the various combinations that Esposito came up with, the pizza that Queen Margeret liked most was the one arranged in the colors of the Italian flag -- red tomatos, white mozzerella, and green basil. Named after the queen who commissioned it, all forms of the pizza which developed from that time forward, first in Italy, than the rest of the world, can claim the Margarita pizza as their mother.

It is in the humble simplicity that Italian cuisine finds its delectability. Unlike many dishes from elsewhere in the world which consist of a dozen of ingredients (not to mention America's processed food industry, which can consist of 100s of ingredients -- most of which are chemicals and dies), Italy's most flavorful fare remains simple. The life lesson here? It is in life's simplicity that one finds life's true delectability.


*Jimmy Buffet, 'Margaritaville'

Staking out the brew

In a city as famous as Rome is for its coffee, is it possible – or even worth the trouble – to try and find the best coffee in the city?

There are some who over simplify the matter, and argue that all Italian coffee, by virtue of being Italian coffee, is essentially equal. Then there are those rarities who will try and stake out the nearest Starbucks in order to get their vanilla latte fix; these fall into the category of people who should not be allowed into the conversation. However, when pressed, most guidebooks and coffee experts in Rome will point to Sant'Eustachio, a small coffee bar located across the Piazza from the Church that bears the same name.

To be sure, the cappucino one is served on a Sunday morning is of a quality difficult to rival. The milk is foamed into a soft, perfect cream, and the espresso has just the right intensity of smoked bitterness. This, along with a clevor marketing scheme of stamping the Sant'Eustacio brand on its merchendise (an image known for its oddity rather than its history) makes Sant'Eustachio a favorite among any coffee enthusiast visiting Rome.

However, going to Sant'Eustachio´s on a quiet day during the week is a slightly different experience. The cappuccino's are as overpriced on a Tuesday as they are on a Sunday (a shocking 1.50 euro), and the quality is average (even unpleasently sub par, on at least one occasion). A disapointing discovery for a true coffee enthusiast; Sant'Eustachio, like many other establishments marked with a world-recognized brand, is a weekday sell-out, only putting its efforts into good coffee with the customer traffic is at its peak.

Where, then, does one find the best coffee in Rome?

What I have learned is that finding good coffee is like finding good wine. It is not simply the brand of coffee that is used. Up the road from my apartment is a small bar. There are about three barristas there, and the coffee brand is simple Miani. The quality of the cappuccino has little, in fact, to do with the coffee brand, however. It has to do with the temperature of the machines, the time of day, the weather. More importantly, it has to do with the person making the coffee. All three barristas make coffee that is quite good, but it is the quietest and moodiest of the three who makes coffee that is exceptional. It is a hearty coffee that is perfectly balanced with the foamed milk.

Like a good glass of wine, a good cup of coffee says a little about the history -- the time, the weather, the mood, the person -- of that moment in which the cup of coffee was made.

Customer Loyalty

The concept of customer loyalty in the United States is something that has been in slow and steady decline since the early 1900s as a result the Industrial Revolution and unchecked Capitalism. Today, produce is bought at the most conveniently located name-brand grocery store, where the price is right, the quality is tolerable, the selection is nearly infinite, and the absence of human interaction is actually one of the most preferable components. Shopping for groceries is as necessary and impersonal a task as is brushing one´s teeth.

When shopping for food in Italy, however, one is not simply buying necessities for living, but one is in fact entering into the community in a fundamental way. Here in the city of Rome, for instance, there are small outdoor markets scattered throughout the city. In my own neighborhood, every morning, I have the choice of almost a dozen fruit and vegetable vendors, and several options as to where I can by my meat, my fish, my prosciutto.

Yet, with all of these options available every day, Italians will always return to the same vendor. And it is not simply because that one vendor has the best products. If the vendor that one has gone to for years happens to be out of tomatos that day, the customer will not go to another stand that has not run out of tomatos (unless the need is quite desperate), but will instead willingly go without tomatos for that particular day.

It is a small sacrifice on the part of the customer, and consequently a small element of loyalty towards the community that is rarely conceived of in the States anymore. America has forgotten that to truly be a part of a community, human interraction should consist of more than simply the most necessary exchanges. The social quality of our human nature is not simply manifested by our need to surround ourselves with people, but through little acts of loyalty and sacrifice -- even for complete strangers. And it is in this way that Italy demonstrates its richness of culture: by its capacity to bring out the best in human interraction in a task as simple as shopping for vegetables.

The Art of Eating

One of the sacrifices that most any graduate student must make is the luxury of eating well. This is most tragically true of any American trying to pursue a professional career, with little but fast-food and cardboard vegetables to fill those precious 20 minute lunch breaks and the exhausted hour and a half between work and bed. For many Americans, food is little more than necessary. It is mundane. It is something to be fit in.

Coming to Rome two years ago, with a full schedule and little money to spend, I discovered quickly that the way in which food works intrinsically within the culture of Italy not only makes it easy to find meals that are both healthy and delicious, but that the culinary culture of Italy plays an integral role in human relationships and in improving the overall quality of one’s life. In the street markets, for instance, one finds the culture of a small farming town (even in the middle of the city), where vegetables are hand-selected personally for you, and where customer loyalty means something. Up the road from my house one finds a bar where the same old men can be found nearly every day at any hour. The three old butchers in my neighborhood are always in a bad mood, but after two years seem to have grown quietly fond of the pretty American students who, in stumbling Italian, try to explain that they would in fact very much like for the butcher to decapitate the chicken for them.

The gift of Rome (in culinary terms, at least) is that, with little time and money, it is possible to eat meals that are fresh, healthy, and splendid. But more than this, it is an opportunity to enter into the culture at its roots, to discover how the culture has developed over countless generations through the culinary arts. And here lies the task of this American student in Rome: to rediscover the art of living through the art of eating.