Don’t touch before you buy. Let the fruit and vegetable vendor fill your basket.If there is one quintessential image that people have of food and Italy it has got to be the open-air market. The image probably includes farmers hawking their apples and oranges, fishmongers slapping around sea bass and squid, and butchers hacking off huge bistecche to wrap up in a rough piece of brown paper to take home for the family meal.
Unfortunately, these days, you are more likely to enjoy this image at a Fellini revival than in downtown Rome. For better or (usually) for worse, the open-air market that was the mainstay of shopping for hundreds of years has changed drastically and rapidly in the last three decades.
When I first moved to Rome in 1972 the open-air markets were still going strong. In fact, one of my most vivid memories of that period is walking into Campo de’ Fiori and being hit by an intense smell that I could not identify. I’d grown up in St. Louis, and while I had always enjoyed trips to Schnucks and Bettendorf’s to do the weekly shopping with my mother, I certainly don’t associate any specific aroma with that time. Boxed cereal, pints of cottage cheese, and even shiny piles of apples just aren’t that aromatic.
But the wall of perfume that hit me as Via dei Giubbonari opened up onto the packed square was intense. Since the butcher stands were on the left side of the square, it was the smell of raw meat that came first. Up until then, our ground hamburger had come neatly shrink-wrapped in little Styrofoam trays, so I don’t think I realized raw meat even had a smell. Slightly sweet, and not always entirely appetizing, it was, I think, the first time I truly realized that meat actually comes from animals.
And to the right, the corner near the water fountain was given over to the fish vendors. Selling out early in the morning, the fish on display—spigole (sea bass), orate (bream), and triglie (red mullet)—were sold whole, complete with heads and tails. The process of gutting the fish, which would be done only once they had been sold, produced its own distinctive, acrid smell.
But the one overwhelming olfactory experience for me was only fully explained decades later when I moved back to Rome as a young wife. There was one slightly bitter but fresh and green smell that I would recognize in an instant as the “Campo de’ Fiori” smell. But if you had asked me then what exactly it was, I could not have told you. Somehow I thought it was just a generic market smell.
But back at home, thirty years later, unpacking my produce and getting ready to cook lunch for my family, I finally realized that the unique smell that had survived in my Proustian food memory was that of perhaps the most iconic of Roman vegetables: the artichoke. And yes, I know you are probably thinking that artichokes don’t have a smell. And if you are buying yours in a supermarket in Des Moines or Chicago, then they don’t. But if you are lucky enough to wander over to one of the massive piles of green and purple globes that fill the markets in Rome during the late spring and early summer, then you’ll be enveloped in the essence of spring.
Campo de’ Fiori is a market in Rome that a lot of people love. It is also a market that a lot of people love to hate. The open-air market in Campo de’ Fiori is undeniably one of Rome’s most famous piazze. Much of this has to do with its location. It is pretty much the only open-air market left in the center of Rome. Each of Rome’s rione, or “neighborhoods,” used to have an open-air market. And when I first moved back to Rome in the early 1990s, I’d do much of my shopping in markets that were steps away from the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, and the Viminale.
Sadly, things change. Due to transformed shopping habits, rising real estate prices, and shifting family customs, most of these markets have died a slow death over the last two decades.
One of the reasons is the explosion of lower-priced supermarkets that descended on the city. They are obviously cheaper, and often more convenient. Another reason is the changing shopping habits. Wives and nonne no longer shop daily for the main meal prepared for husbands and sons who come home from work for lunch. Most women work these days, and so families tend to do their shopping on weekends, at the less expensive supermarkets. And finally, rising real estate prices and taxes have made selling apples and oranges from a cart not so much of a career calling.
Like the other markets in Rome, Campo de’ Fiori was dying its own slow death. By the early ’90s the market was a far cry from the one I remembered from the time I lived here as a child in the 1970s. The modern version was not the crowded, chaotic, and colorful mash-up of fruits, vegetables, meats, fish, cheeses, and flowers that I loved. When I moved back to Rome in 1990, instead of massive piles of artichokes and melons, there were stretches of empty cobblestoned paving where stands used to crowd one another out. Each year, as I pushed my daughter’s stroller around the square, there would be fewer and fewer stands, and more and more empty space. The meat vendors were the first to go, then the fish vendors, until finally there were just a handful of produce stands holding guard.
Finally, the tide began to turn. One day I showed up and the small spice stand at one end of the piazza had expanded to take over four spaces. Not only was the vendor selling spices, he was now offering olives, dried fruit and nuts, and bags of sun-dried tomatoes and porcini.
Other new arrivals targeted what turned out to be the biggest groups of visitors to the market these days: tourists. Stands selling T-shirts, sun hats, and souvenirs began to fill up other spaces. At the same time, the established fruit and vegetable stands, which offer some of the best (and most expensive) produce in the city, began to get into the game. Not content with merely selling high-end produce to the wealthy residents of Rome’s centro storico, they also began to turn some of their fruit into fruit salad or fresh juices, which were grabbed up by tourists. Similarly the housewares stand started selling brightly colored ceramics and cute pasta cutters next to the more practical forks and can openers.
The most recent additions to the market are stands that appear to be selling “food” but are really selling “foodlike” souvenirs. Yes, I’m talking about bags of multicolored, anatomically shaped pasta and pink limoncello in violin-shaped bottles. (What is that stuff anyway?)
I admit it would be easy to dismiss the market these days as a purely Disney-like tourist attraction. Yes, there are some stands that are there only to make a profit by selling strange “foodlike” products and souvenirs to tourists. But the seven or eight stands that still sell produce are among the best in Rome. During a recent visit I saw plump strawberries from Terracina; beautiful flower-bedecked zucchini romanesco; pencil-thin wild asparagus; and what were probably some of the only wild ovoli mushrooms on sale in Rome that day. These were all being sold by the same families who have been standing behind their fruits and vegetables for generations.
No, it’s not a farmers’ market, and no, it’s not necessarily local and almost never organic. But in the age when open markets are a dying breed, I’m just happy to see a market still there. And if some of the icky stuff for sale can help subsidize the truly excellent produce side of things, then I think that is a good thing. Sadly, not all markets can be farmers’ markets.
There has been an open-air market in Campo de’ Fiori for hundreds of years. And I’m pretty sure that centuries ago, there were stands that were selling schlock stuff, too. Things change, for better and for worse. And, at the end of the day, if the changes that have gone on and continue to go on in Campo de’ Fiori mean that the market still exists, then I’m all for change. A changed market is better than no market at all.
Perhaps my affection for Campo de’ Fiori comes from the fact that I truly learned how to shop here. One thing that it took me years to master was market etiquette. I’m not talking about my continued grammatical struggle to learn when to use the formal Lei versus the informal tu. I’m talking about how to actually get the fruits and vegetables from their place on the stands into my shopping bag. Pick it up and pay for it, you say? Oh, nothing is that easy in Rome
First of all I had to choose which stand to go to. And while you may think that I would just go to one stand that has the ripest tomatoes and then another that has the firmest asparagus, you’d be wrong. Because I learned long ago that once you pick a vendor, you have to stick to her, for better or worse. Yes, kind of like a marriage—or a hairdresser.
If you are only in Rome visiting, and shopping at the market for one day, then this doesn’t matter so much. But if you plan on going back, even if it’s only for a one-week vacation in Rome, then you’d better pick your vendor and stick to her. Because that is how you are going to end up with the beautifully and perfectly ripe peach that she has hidden away, and not the one with the big bruise.
I learned this the hard way. I’d been doing my shopping at Campo de’ Fiori, and had been frequenting mostly one stand, since it seemed to have the best produce and prices. At first the owner was her typically brusque self, not being especially nice, but not being rude either. Just rough. You know, Roman. But I did notice that even if her demeanor didn’t much improve, every time I went back I would come away with better and better produce. At first I would inevitably find at least one iffy piece of something at the bottom of my bag: a slightly bruised apple, an overripe pear, or a totally green plum that would never ripen. But slowly, I realized that this wasn’t happening anymore. Rather than fill my bags with the produce on display in the front crates, my lady would head to the back, to slip in the premium produce. The stuff she keeps hidden and reserves for her regular customers. While I kind of understood what was happening, and was very glad to be considered a regular, I didn’t fully realize that there were certain rules I had to play along with.
One day I made the mistake of coming to the market with an actual shopping list (I was making something slightly complicated for a dinner party). Since my fruttivendolo didn’t have the asparagus that the soup required, I thought, “no problem,” I’ll just head two stands down and pick up two beautiful bunches I’d seen earlier.
It wasn’t a problem at all until I returned home from a shopping trip to the market two days later and found, once again, a completely bug-ridden tomato at the bottom of my bag. A not so gentle reminder from my signora that (a) she saw me cheating on her, and (b) I’d better not do it again if I expected to be treated in the manner to which I had so blissfully accustomed myself.
At this point you may be thinking, Why don’t you just choose your own fruit and vegetables? That way you could just get what you’d like. Well, I have one thing to say to you: non toccare! That means “don’t touch,” or rather “DON’T TOUCH,” since that phrase is almost always screamed in a way that shames you into never fondling anyone else’s peaches in public ever again.
How do you figure out if the fruit is ripe? The simple answer is you don’t. You must put yourself blindly in the hands of the vendor. Show loyalty, and she’ll give you the good stuff. Cross her? Well, that bruised banana can always go into a fruit salad.
Another thing I love about the markets in Rome is the convenience. I’m obviously not talking about walking to the market during its limited opening hours and making my way home lugging bags. I’m talking about buying vegetables prepped and ready to cook.
In the States, part of the debate about trying to get people to eat more vegetables has to do with the fact that vegetables are time-consuming to prepare. That when faced with something like an artichoke, asparagus, or even a head of lettuce, many Americans can’t be bothered to clean, trim, and cook. The processed alternative is to buy a bag of prewashed lettuce, “mini” carrots, or frozen spinach. But these “vegetables,” which have been prepped in huge factories, long after they have been picked, have about as much flavor and nutritional value as a shoe insert. It’s no wonder that so many people say they don’t like vegetables.
This is why I’m so happy/lucky to live in Italy. Yes, I’m as lazy as the next person. Come mealtime, it’s not as if I always have the time/energy/patience to shell 3 kilos of peas, trim a dozen artichokes, or—I admit it—even peel a carrot. The great thing is that I don’t have to. Vegetable vendors in Italy are only too happy to do the dirty work for you. Go to any open-air market, or even a local vegetable store, and you’ll see baskets of trimmed and washed greens, bags of cipolline (onions) or shelled fava beans, all prepared daily by the vendors themselves.
My favorites are the mixes. Each market stand or vegetable store has its own spin on minestrone and salad, which change with the season. Pumpkin is sold in large wedges, so you can buy just what you need. Beans are freshly shelled, green beans trimmed and bagged and ready for steaming. Even wild chicory is neatly trimmed of its dirty roots, so all you have to do is give it a rinse before cooking.
Watching the vendors clean the vegetables is also a nifty and free culinary lesson. Stop by any morning, and you’ll see older men and women sitting next to piles of produce, trimming away with plastic-handled, dull-looking knives. Some wear gloves, but most have hands weathered and scarred by decades of nipping and cutting.
Besides teaching you how to clean a vegetable, the vendors are always happy to provide a recipe. In fact, some of my favorite recipes have come from conversations started over piles of beans, cabbage, and squash. Over the years I’ve learned that if I don’t recognize a vegetable, I needn’t worry about how to prepare it. A simple “Come se fa?” (“How do you do it?”) usually results not only in the fruttivendolo giving me her favorite recipe, but, nine times out of ten, the other women waiting patiently for their turn will also chime in. Before I know it, I’m the focus of a lively discussion on the merits of whether to roast or braise, garlic versus onion, or the dilemma of deciding to make a soup or pasta.
Try having that experience in a supermarket.
Don’t touch before you buy. Let the fruit and vegetable vendor fill your basket.
Be true to your vendor. Loyalty to your chosen stand will always get you the best produce.
If you don’t know, ask. Vendors often have the best recipes.
Watch and learn. Most vendors will let you watch while they prep the vegetables for sale.
Don’t bargain. It’s just not done.
Via di San Teodoro 74
Saturday, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. and Sunday, 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.
This is a true farmers’ market, with only local produce grown in Lazio. Lately, this is where I do most of my weekly shopping.
Piazza Campo de’ Fiori
Monday through Saturday, 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.
This is one of the few remaining outdoor markets in the center of Rome. Yes, it’s full of junk, but it also has some of the best produce in the city.
Via Galvani 57
Monday through Saturday, 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.
One of the best markets in Rome, it has recently moved to a modern building, but is still home to some of the best vendors in town. Everything from meat and fish to fruit, vegetables, and even wine. Located near the old slaughterhouse, Testaccio also sells a wide array of offal and even horse meat, in case you are in the market for this.
Via Principe Amadeo 184
Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, 5:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.; Tuesday and Friday, 5:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.
This is Rome’s ethnic market, and is lively, colorful, and full of hard-to-find things like mangoes, yams, and lemongrass. It has one of the best fish markets in town.
Via la Goletta 1
Monday through Saturday, 7:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.; Tuesday and Friday, open until 7:00 p.m.
The Trionfale market is not only Rome’s biggest, it’s one of the biggest in Italy. With more than 270 vendors, you can find just about everything here. Located in a heavily residential neighborhood near the Vatican, it is one of the most authentic in Rome.
Serves 4 to 6
I can’t remember the last time I made minestrone from scratch. And by scratch I mean buy each vegetable separately and chop it up. I do, however, buy bags full of prechopped fresh minestrone mix at the market almost every week. More or less, this is the recipe I follow.
¼ cup (60 milliliters) extra-virgin olive oil
1 onion, chopped
1 teaspoon salt
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 pounds (1 kilo) mixed fresh vegetables,
which should include the following:
• carrots
• cabbage
• zucchini
• celery
• bell peppers
• tomatoes
• potatoes
(But really, you can add green beans, pumpkin, leeks, cauliflower, broccoli, kale. They are all good.)
Heat the olive oil in a large soup pot over medium heat. Add the onion and salt and cook until softened, about 10 minutes
Add the garlic to the onion and cook for about 8 minutes, or until softened but not browned.
Add the chopped vegetables and stir well. If using bulky greens like Swiss chard, put a lid on the pot and let them wilt for about 5 minutes, then add the remaining vegetables.
Remove the lid, add enough water to cover by one inch, and cook slowly for about 1 hour. When the soup has finished cooking, blend with an immersion blender for a couple of seconds just to thicken up the broth a bit; you still want the soup to be chunky. Taste and correct for salt.
Of course you can play around with the ingredients. And feel free to throw in an old piece of Parmesan rind, which will add extra flavor.
Serves 4
Romans still eat very seasonally. They are wary of strawberries except for a few short weeks a year, and gobble up as much puntarelle (chicory) as they can during its brief season, only two months in winter.
When it comes to seasonal vegetables, nothing beats the holy trinity of artichokes, fava beans, and peas. They each have their own specific time: First the huge purple romanesco artichokes start showing up. Then the bright green, bursting-at-the-seams fava pods. And finally, just before the favas leave the stage, peas make their entrance. The result is one of Rome’s most loved—but maybe least known—dishes: vignarola.
I have never seen this dish on a menu outside of Rome, much less outside of Italy. Maybe that is because its success has as much to do with the freshest ingredients as with any culinary skill. The artichokes that grow in Lazio are unique. And the dish is made with very fresh, very young fava beans that require no double shelling. Hard to find in most places.
But I also think that one of the reasons that vignarola is not on any menus is due to the fact that it is so damn labor-intensive. While easy to cook, the vegetables themselves take forever to prep. Shelling enough favas and peas for a meal for four can take you a half hour. Then there are the artichokes, which must be shorn of their tough outer leaves, trimmed around the root, dechoked, and sliced, all the while keeping them (and your hands) in an acidulated bath so that they don’t turn brown. But, if you are lucky enough to live in Rome, then you can pick up tidy little packages of fresh shelled peas and fava beans and trimmed artichokes in the markets around town.
¼ cup (60 milliliters) extra-virgin olive oil
3 scallions (white parts only)
6 artichokes, tough outer leaves and choke removed, cleaned and sliced
2 cups shelled fava beans
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
3 cups (¾ liter) water, or more as needed
1½ cups shelled peas
2 cups finely chopped romaine lettuce
Heat the oil in a large pot, add the scallions, and gently soften without browning. Add the artichokes and stir a bit, then stir in the fava beans. Season with salt and pepper, and add about 3 cups of water. Cover and simmer for about 40 minutes, adding more water if necessary; you want it to be somewhere between a soup and a stew. Add the peas and lettuce and cook for another 8 to 10 minutes. Taste and correct for salt.
Depending on how I’m feeling, I sometimes add chopped guanciale or pancetta at the beginning with the scallions. Another option is to add fresh mint or parsley at the very end. If I’m feeling particularly daring, I add some grated lemon zest, which is completely untraditional.
