The Enoteca

I am fortunate enough to live in an area of the city that is quietly, authentically Roman. There is the bar with its heartily good coffee, the street market that only the locals know about. These I have addressed in previous entries. What I have not yet addressed is the wine bar, known in Italy as the Enoteca.

There is something about the right kind of Enoteca that is just good for the soul. As I write, I am sitting at a charactered wooden table, eating sharp, salty cheese, homemade chips, and sipping on a fabulous, dry and high-tannined glass of red wine. In the table over are three American writers, cultured and pretentious, eating good food and sampling wine that I could only dream of affording. The atmosphere is dark, but not too dark, and the ambiance is lightly seasoned with a hint of American jazz. The proprietor is a large, gruff man, who knows his wine. It is certainly a hidden gem, one that I suspect is known to a hidden number of the “artistic types.” Providential, then, that I live only fine minutes away.

There is a version of this culture that exists in the States. But – with very few exceptions – it is only a very poor imitation. It is one of my favorite cultures, for it is an “ambito” of both healthy intellectualism and the most entertaining pretentiousness. While I was pursuing my undergrad, I worked at a Virginia winery, and had the opportunity to witness first-hand at least an element of this culture (largely based on the fact that the son of my boss was the most pretentious of them all, going so far – in recent years – to gain fame for being one half of the couple to gate-crash a White House dinner).

But when all is said and done, there is something melancholic about the pretention of places that draws these kinds of people – academics, artists, writers, free-thinkers. One has the sense of an emptiness of spirit, one that these patrons seek to fill with cultured living. The culture that fears poverty, humility, and risking one’s own good for the sake of another, is the culture that is the most lonely, closed up with the food, wine, and music that their peers tell them that they should be enjoying if they are to live a happy life.

An American Breakfast

With all of my adulations of Italian cuisine, my years here in Rome have made me reflect on my own culture. The efficiency, the cleanliness, the open spaces, family, round doorknobs, etc. Italy beats America in food frequently – but not always. When it comes to breakfast, America wins, hands down.

Italy doesn’t hold a flame to America when it comes to breakfast. Of course, a cappuccino and a light cornetto is a pleasant way to lightly start the day. A typical Italian spread, where there is a spread, will consist of bread, jam, butter, maybe yogurt, maybe cereal if you’re really lucky. Not an unhealthy, insufficient, unpleasant breakfast; but not exactly something to write home about either.

But in America, breakfast is real. American breakfast is a man’s breakfast. It is not a breakfast for wimps. I dream of an American breakfast sometimes. Eggs, scrambled, fried, or sunny-side up. The choice of bacon, sausage, or ham (or the option of having all of the above). Smooth, buttery grits (if you’re from the south, like I am). Hearty oatmeal, topped with brown sugar. And for the complex carbs, the options are varied and always hearty: buttermilk biscuits (my personal favorite), English muffins, thick pancakes, waffles, French toast, and even regular toast if you feel so inclined. All of this can be washed down with a massive glass of milk (an oddity in this country), an equally massive glass of orange juice, and a good cup of strong, American coffee.

There are some who make the mistake of idealizing Italy. It’s food, culture, and history are extraordinary, and it is no wonder that some people wait their entire lives to come here. But there is merit to American culture as well, to all other cultures outside of Italy, in fact. If you cannot see the merits of your own country through the glare of Italy’s novelty, you are in fact blinded by the ideal of Italy, and are as a result likely missing out on much of what it has to offer.

A Yankee's Christmas in Rome

It was days before Christmas. The parents, scheduled to come the previous Saturday, were stuck in London, waiting for the snow to clear so that they could finally make the transfer to Rome in time for Christmas. One day in London, two days, three days . . . It was my intention to give them as festive a Christmas as was in my power to, but after the debacle of being iced into a country that they did not particularly want to be in, the pressure to give them as enjoyable a Christmas as possible was on.

How does one make a festive Christmas dinner without an oven? The answer – “PolloDiavolo,” of course!

Well, not of course – “chicken of the devil” is not exactly the first thing that comes to mind when one is celebrating the birth of the Christ Child. However, I had gone to the butcher the day before my parents arrived (which ended up being five days after they were scheduled to), and explained in my not-so-best Italian my dilemma, and this was the most festive culinary option that seemed available to me. A whole chicken, head and feet removed, flayed down the middle so that its inner cavity was open to the world, its bones smashed for ease (all this conducted with – to my American sensibilities – truly barbaric detachment). Between the friendly butcher and the older lady customer, I was assured that frying the chicken over very high heat with lemon juice, salt, and rosmarino, would be molto buono (there was probably some more crucial advice included in the instructions, but my culinary Italian has its limitations). In any case, I felt ready to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior with some Chicken Diavolo.

The next morning, bright and early at 4am, the parents arrived at my door. After a long nap, we awoke to a dark, cold, rainy Christmas Eve. Evening Mass at the Centro San Lorenzo, with midnight Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica. The next morning, special tickets for the UrbeetOrbis blessing, which took us on top of the colonnade, right next to the giant statue of St. Francis. A blessed, but exhausting Christmas.

After a nap, the exchange of some presents (which had been laid out under my small plastic Christmas tree), and a relaxing movie on my laptop, it was time to confront the devil (chicken).

With a flayed raw chicken, and a square foot of counter space (such as only a Pontifical student can afford), it began to occur to me that there were some logistical considerations that I had not taken into account. With one hand, I attempted tofinagle the pathetically deadbird into doing my will, its floppy, greasy, salmonella-infestedlimbs draped almost to my elbow, while withthe other hand I attempted to rinse it and season it with organic pepper, sea salt, and freshly-squeezed lemon juice. When all was seasoned and soaked, I dropped the bird into the scalding hot frying pan.

Smoke.

One of the crucial points that I apparently missed in my butcher’s instructions was the one that said not to put a chicken doused in lemon juice on a steaming hot olive-oiled pan, because it will burn on the outside, and stay raw on the inside. To be sure, the voice of personal experience in such matters was telling me this, but I told it to hush, I’m sure the nice butcher man knows what he’s talking about. Of course, the voice of personal experience did admittedly remind me that my Italian is not up to snuff, but I took offence and decided to ignore the personal experience voice altogether out of spite.

In any event, an hour and a half later, after an emergency rescue battle to somehow get the bird cooked enough to be eatable, and my dad had gone to bed, my mom and I enjoyed a nice, lemony, and crunchy Christmas chicken.