Spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, and chile
Fettuccine with butter and anchovies
Spaghetti with cherry tomatoes
Bucatini with tomato and cured pork
Spaghetti with tomatoes, anchovies, capers, and olives
Spaghetti with ricotta and black pepper
Linguine with zucchini, egg, and Parmesan
I was so intent on going back to Sicily that even when it became clear I was going to stay in Rome for a couple of months, I continued to read about Sicilian food and plan the route I would take when I got back. Moving to Testaccio was the first shift, as it was here, away from the domes and grand monuments in a fairly modern part of the city with a lively market and ordinary air, that I first wondered if I could settle for a while. But even then I persisted in thinking about Sicily, especially its cooking, because for me, food has always been a lens to look at the world through.
Roman food, though, is hard to ignore, particularly in Testaccio. Distinctive, traditional, and inextricably tied with the history and daily life of the place, it seems to permeate everything. The scent of pizza bianca curling up through the courtyard into my flat, the smell of dozens of pans of chickpeas simmering on a Friday morning to make pasta e ceci (pasta and chickpea soup)—not that I knew what it was yet—the reek of boiled broccoli on Tuesdays, the stench of the water swept from under the fish stalls into the gutter on a warm afternoon. Just minutes from my new flat, caper berries climbed the ancient city wall and wild mint sprouted in the cracks in the pavement. Most days during that first spring I’d see crates of saw-edged cicoria (chicory) and violet-tipped artichokes being wheeled deftly on nippy trolleys from the market next to my building to one of the trattorias nearby. It wasn’t unusual to have my path crossed by a man carrying a halved animal carcass, its red flesh marbled with fat, balanced on his wide shoulders on its way into one of the many butchers. Some mornings I’d wake up thinking the world was falling in, only to realize it was an avalanche of wood for the pizza ovens tumbling down a hatch into a cellar.
Whereas the food of Sicily had thrilled me, the food of Rome tripped me up and then pulled me to my feet, charming me with its simplicity, certainty, and bold flavors—notably the primi, or first courses. A deep bowl of pasta e ceci scented with rosemary; spaghetti coated with a seductive creamy sauce that’s nothing more than eggs, cheese, and cured pork; more spaghetti, glistening with olive oil, flecked with parsley and clams, and tasting indignantly of the sea; a plate of stout potato gnocchi, no bigger than acorns, topped with bright red sauce and a blizzard of pecorino cheese. I quickly realized I didn’t just want to eat these dishes, I wanted to understand them. I wanted to make them.
At that time I lived in a flat on via Mastro Giorgio above the bakery, Passi, in a building still largely inhabited by people who were born there, many of whom cooked each day in the most resolutely traditional way, with their front doors open on to the walkways hanging over the communal courtyard, across which voices and cooking smells bounced like balls. Through suspicion and occasional mockery, I persisted and began to gather advice in much the same way as I gathered ingredients at the market, attracted to anything that caught my eye. Looking back, I’m not sure whether to smile or cringe at my enthusiasm. Others certainly cringed. Then, with my door open—not least because the kitchen had no window and the stove no exhaust fan—I began to cook.