{ chapter 13 }

trattoria behavior

People think that just because I write about food I get to eat in fancy restaurants all the time. Far from it. First of all, fancy restaurants are expensive and I usuallypay for my meals. And second, I naturally tend toward the simpler end of the eatery spectrum. Especially in Italy.

Up until recently, when you wanted to go out to eat in Rome the landscape was very strictly defined. At the upper end of things there were ristoranti. White tablecloths on tables, ancient waiters (never waitresses) in white jackets, and a menu from which you were expected to order at least two courses. Prices were relatively high, and you were paying as much for the formal setting and service as for the food itself.

At the other end of the spectrum there were the osteria and trattoria. These simpler places started out life as places that sold wine. This was where laborers could come with their own food—a piece of bread, an onion, and maybe a hunk of cheese—sit down, and order a carafe of white Frascati. Eventually these places started serving food as well: ­simple pastas and maybe one or two main courses. And always: wine by the carafe.

When I lived in Rome in the ’70s, when heading out to eat we gravitated to the trattorie. Cheap as could be, I remember clearly that a plate of pasta was usually about 600 lire (about 60 cents). Ristoranti—like Piperno or La Campana—were reserved for special occasions like birthdays or grandparents visiting. But it was to the corner trattoria that we headed for weekend dinners or any night my mother didn’t feel like cooking.

One of my favorite parts of eating in these trattorie was the wine dispensers. Massive, refrigerated cabinets took up the entire back wall. They were usually fronted with a mirror etched with a Roman scene or a still life of grapes. But the main action was the little spigots. This is where the waiter would hold a hastily rinsed, stocky glass carafe and fill it up to the top with slightly fizzy white wine. The wine was straw colored and the still active fermentation would not only result in a foamy head, but also a heady, almost sour, distinctly wine smell that I would forever associate with eating out in Rome.

Although I wasn’t old enough to drink, I was completely fascinated by the entire procedure. I loved the bow-waisted glass carafes as well as the short chunky glasses that were used to drink wine, water, or, more commonly, a mixture of both. I was completely mystified how the wine came out of the faucets, just like water. It was one of the sure signs that, in fact, Italy was a lot different than where I had grown up in St. Louis, where faucets were for water. I actually thought that wine was part of the plumbing. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that large trucks were coming in from Frascati and piping in barrel loads of wine directly into large vats.

Although these trattorie and osterie were simple, that didn’t mean they were without their own unwritten codes. My sisters and I soon learned the rules that every Roman already knew. There were certain things you ordered at specific places, and even certain dishes that were only available on specific days of the week. We took to going out on Thursdays since my sister Jodi was obsessed with gnocchi and this was the day they were served. You would never think of ordering fish on a Sunday or Monday (no boats go out on those days), but on Friday you wouldn’t order anything but fish.

At the same time there were things on the menu that no person would ever order. Insalata Russa, a mixture of boiled vegetables, pickles, and mayonnaise, was, at the time, on almost all menus. But it was something that no one I knew ever ordered, anywhere.

Another thing my sisters and I were fascinated with was the display of antipasti that would greet us when we walked in the door. Almost every trattoria we went to had a display of platters filled with gleaming, colorful choices: thick slices of bright yellow frittata, glistening orbs of sweet and sour onions, parsley-flecked seafood salad, and too many kinds of roasted vegetables and salads to name. This abundant display would change with the seasons, including artichokes in the spring and platters full of tangled wild greens in the winter.

The location of the antipasto display was crucial. Since you were forced to pass by the display as you made your way to your table, this almost guaranteed that you would order something, even if it was only a small dish of marinated black olives. The smells and sights were just too tantalizing to pass up.

In recent years this type of antipasto display seems to be a dying breed. I think it may be partly due to health regulations (I’m not sure platters of room-temperature food within easy reach of everyone walking by comply with current EU norms), but I also suspect it has to do a bit with changing eating habits. Antipasto translates as “before the meal,” and these days, with people watching what they eat as well as what they spend, it’s a rare case that you would order three full courses in any restaurant. The antipasto course has sadly been a casualty of these trends.

Luckily there are still a few very old-fashioned places that choose to stick to tradition. Nerone, a nothing-special kind of place, is one of my favorites. While one of the main attractions of this neighborhood tratorria is the rickety tables with direct views of the Colosseum, locals come here for the massive antipasto counter in the back. Adapting to current regulations, the owners have installed a long, refrigerated display case that runs almost the length of the room. Glass shelves balance white platters filled with all of my favorites. Like all good antipasto spreads, it is heavy on the vegetables: grilled and marinated peppers, stewed artichokes, and breaded and fried eggplant. Then there are the fritti: small balls of rice, potato croquettes, and breaded stuffed olives, orbs of pure white mozzarella, black and green marinated olives, and at least three kinds of seafood salad.

my five favorite trattorie

These days true trattorie are a dying breed. I’m talking about humble, paper-­covered-table kind of places. Here are a few that are left.

Sora Margherita

Piazza delle Cinque Scole 30, 39-06-687-4216

Sora Margherita is, literally, a hole in the wall. Its fifteen paper-topped tables are crammed into a long narrow space that barely has room for a kitchen. Get there by 12:15 and put your name on the waiting list. Then sit on one of the chairs outside and wait. It’s worth it. Trust me. (They start serving at 12:30.) Don’t miss: deep-fried artichokes and cacio e pepe con ricotta.

Settimio

Via del Pellegrino 117, 39-06-688-01978

Simple, bare-bones trattoria. The kitchen is the size of a closet, but manages to turn out Roman classics, including freshly made pasta. Nothing fancy. No whole grilled sea bass or grouper here. This is what keeps the prices pretty low; that and the other lovingly prepared standards, served on thick white plates, no garnish. Don’t be put off by the locked door; they are, indeed open, if they decide to let you in.

Enoteca Corsi

Via del Gesu 87/88, 39-06-679-0821, lunch only

An old-fashioned “bottle” shop, selling wine in the front room—the real action is in back. Paper-topped tables and wooden chairs are all original. A daily menu is thrown on the table, outlining the dozen specials of the day. Everything is rough, ready, and delicious.

Dar Filettaro

Largo dei Librari 88, 39-06-686-4018, dinner only

This small hole-in-the-wall doesn’t kid around. They serve one thing, and one thing only: big, steaming hunks of freshly fried baccalà. If you want to be really Roman, order a plate of acciughe con burro, anchovies with butter. But the main draw is of course the baccalà.

Tonino

Via del Governo Vecchio 18–19, 333-587-0779

The official name is Trattoria Antonio Bassetti, but there’s barely a sign outside, and everyone just calls it Tonino’s. Even though it’s just down the street from the touristy Piazza Navona, you’ll find more regulars here than tourists. The space is cramped, tables are draped in cheery checked cloth, and the menu never changes. This is the place to order bucatini ­all’amatriciana, gnocchi (on Thursdays), or ­spaghetti alla gricia. Seconds usually include stuffed zucchini, meatballs, and—on Fridays—baccalà.

places that still have an antipasto buffet

Nerone

Via delle Terme di Tito 96, 39-06-481-7952

Nerone has one of the few old-fashioned big antipasto spreads left. I’ll say right up front, there isn’t any grand innovation or creativity here. What there is are seasonal vegetables, cooked in a few different ways, served without fanfare. Grilled peppers simply dressed with oil and a bit of garlic; fried eggplant, breaded and drizzled with a light tomato sauce; pan-fried zucchini rounds dressed with vinegar and mint; artichokes, stewed until they become like silk.

Hosteria L’Orso 80

Via del’Orso 33, 39-06-686-4904

The main reason to go to this large and old-fashioned place just a block from Piazza Navona is the antipasto spread. Have a seat and just say the word antipasti and sit back for the ride. The plates start coming and don’t really stop until the waiters can’t find any more space on the table. The small plates include a bit of everything: small veal meatballs in tomato sauce, focaccia, mozzarella, fried zucchini flowers, prosciutto and melon, grilled vegetables, beans, seafood salad. The rest of the menu is excellent, but it’s the antipasto that’s the thing. And you may very well be too full to carry on.

Costanza

Piazza del Paradiso 63, 39-06-686-1717

Costanza is more restaurant than trattoria, but still continues the tradition of displaying antipasti in the entranceway. Platters of artichokes, roasted peppers, and stuffed zucchini nudge up against seafood salad and marinated octopus.

when in rome … trattoria rules

1. What to order?: Almost no one is expected to order three full courses anymore. Two courses will do just fine. An antipasto and a first or second course or else a pasta and a main dish are enough.

2. Splitting a dish: You can do it, but remember, portions in Italy are smaller than in the States.

3. Tipping: Take a look at your bill. If there is a charge for service, then just a few euros left on the table will suffice. If service is not included, then 10 percent is standard.

4. Bread: The bread basket is not a free antipasto course. The bread is there to be eaten with either your antipasto, main dish, or salad. Italians do not ask for a dish of olive oil and then proceed to eat the basketful of bread before the meal even starts.

recipes: roman trattoria food

celery and cheese antipasto

Serves 4

Old-fashioned Roman trattorie are quirky things. I often hear from visitors to Rome that they’ve looked at the menu, chosen something, only to see everyone else around them eating completely different dishes than were listed.

Not only are daily specials not listed, but also certain things, like antipasti and side dishes (contorni), remain completely mysterious. Even restaurants that I have been going to for years have special dishes that continue to escape my notice. For instance, we’ve been going to Perilli for Sunday lunches for about fifteen years now. And it was only last year that I discovered their delicious and, as far as I can figure out, totally unique celery and cheese antipasto. The only way we found out about it was thanks to our favorite waiter, Valerio. One afternoon Domenico and I had arrived at 1:00 to meet Sophie and Emma for lunch. For some reason (drying their hair? putting on makeup?) they were very late. Valerio took pity on us, and brought us over a plate of what at first glance looked to be cheese in oil.

Instead it was Perilli’s amazing celery and fontina antipasto in mustard vinaigrette. Who knew? Well, I should have. It had always been available on the antipasto table for as long as we’d been going there. Tucked right between the carciofi alla romana and the stuffed zucchini. But, somehow, it had never been offered, and so it had never been ordered. It’s now become one of our favorite dishes. The white tender celery hearts are cut into long sticks, as is the fontina. They are then mixed together with a lemony vinaigrette made with mustard. Not spicy French Dijon mustard, but a more mild and fruity one, basically any supermarket mustard that you can get in Italy (more French’s than Grey Poupon).

4 to 5 celery heart stalks (only the whitest inner stalks)

¼ pound (150 grams) fontina cheese (see note)

1½ tablespoons yellow prepared mustard, such as French’s

⅓ cup extra-virgin olive oil

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Crusty Italian bread, for serving

Cut the celery stalks into 3-inch-long, thickish pieces. Cut the cheese into the same shape.

Put the mustard into a small bowl. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil, a bit at a time, stirring to emulsify the mixture, then pour in more; it will get very thick. Slowly add the lemon juice and taste. If you like it more lemony, add more lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Combine everything in a bowl and mix well. Let sit for at least an hour before serving. This allows the cheese to absorb the flavors of the vinaigrette and the celery to wilt just a bit.

Place the antipasto in a small, shallow serving dish, set in the center of the table, and let everyone serve themselves. Accompany with bread, and soon you’ll see everyone fighting to dip their bread in the leftover dressing.

Note: If you can’t get fontina, then a high-quality Swiss would work just fine.

cacio e pepe

Serves 4–5

More or less the Roman version of macaroni and cheese, it’s a poor man’s dish, involving nothing more than three ingredients. While it was always available in the simplest of trattorie, this was not a dish that was common in the general restaurant scene in Rome until about fifteen years ago, when it was “rediscovered.” Now every chef worth his while is experimenting with different fancied-up versions. Although one of the most typical shapes of pasta to use is fresh tonnarelli, I find that packaged rigatoni is easier to handle at home.

Although the recipe seems easy, it’s not. Make sure you follow the directions about the stirring and adding of cheese, or else you will end up with a big, ugly clump.

1 pound (500 grams) rigatoni

4 ounces (120 grams) young pecorino cheese, grated

2 to 3 tablespoons freshly ground black pepper

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until al dente.

Meanwhile, mix the grated cheese with the pepper and set aside. Make sure your pasta bowl is heated, or else your cheese will clump up. You can heat the bowl by letting it sit with hot water in it until you are ready to use it.

When the pasta is done, drain it, reserving 1 cup of the pasta cooking water. Transfer the pasta to the large heated bowl. Add handfuls of cheese to the pasta, mixing as you go, and alternating with a bit of the reserved pasta cooking water so it doesn’t get dried out. Keep doing this until you have used all the cheese. You want to add the cheese slowly so it doesn’t all melt and clump up, but don’t overstir, or again, it will all come together in a clump.

Grind a bit more black pepper on top, and serve immediately. In fact, most trattorie tend to do the mixing at the table.

Variation: Sora Margherita serves their cacio e pepe with a big, heaping dollop of fresh ricotta atop each plate. Not traditional at all, but absolutely divine.