Dining Companion #1: Rome
Italian specialities, American parallels, too much wine
We arrive in Rome at around 9 in the morning, feeling suspiciously fresh faced for a red eye. The taxi drives us up the winding road to the Hassler at the top of the Spanish steps, all too picturesque to take in at this moment.
The time blurs from coffee to a stroll along Via Condotti, where I pick up an invigorating cologne from Farmaceuticia Santa Maria Novella– Alba di Seoul. An oud with conifer notes, the scent is intoxicating to me. Whenever I wear it, I spend the day putting my wrist to my face to take in the dried down fragrance, one of the strongest in my collection. Through some small miracle, the restaurant our concierge has recommended opens at 12:30, which is early for lunch here.
Nino’s is one of those classic spots, the type they try to recreate in New York where there’s dishes of tiramisu and seasonal berries on shelves behind the host and cured meat hanging in the dining room. Beautiful old world interior with original handmade features, craftsmanship dripping off the walls. One of those places which conjures romanticism for the American, memories of the old world. But here, it’s just lunch service.
We order salumi, tuna with white beans, and the dover sole. I’ve decided to eat meat on this trip because it’s a cornerstone of Roman cooking, and refusing indulgence isn’t really on my itinerary. The beans and tuna feels a bit Spanish in the sense that it’s simple cooking, perhaps just four ingredients, and utterly perfect.The olive oil is crucial to this dish, and would be incomplete with a lesser quality pressing. The salumi is shamefully delicious, and I take the last bite knowing my fated return to pescatarianism by the end of week. I have zero memory of the dover sole as the jet lag hits me like a brick between courses, and I’m destined to float up the top of that grand staircase for naptime.
I sleep through our wine tasting and wake up in time for dinner at Camoneschi. The dining area is mostly outdoor, covered and heated, with a giant party of Americans. We are fortunate to arrive at the beginning of porcini season, and I spring for an order of them grilled before our waiter can even bring the display basket by.
We’re given some small balls of mozzarella and black olives to taste before our meal. The olives are lightly brined and the moz has a strong grass note– my favorite. Terroir is not only dynamic, but a beautiful part of narration in food, speaking to the life of labor and the lengthy process which takes place to deliver our meals to the table. The porcini arrives shortly after, warm and lightly buttered, with a tenderness akin to organ meats. Earthiness is shared in both, but the mushroom is more delicate, not as funky as a kidney or liver. Bitterness filtered through two different means, producing similar notes.
Afterwards we indulge in preserved artichokes (a regional speciality) and two respective pasta dishes. Our server stands in abject horror as my client declares himself finished with a considerable amount of food remaining on his plate. He looks at us like we fucked his mother, the whole ordeal feels far too culturally Asian for me and I look away with humility. The Americans at the tables ahead of us all sip ice cold diet cokes, but already burdened with shame, I decide against asking for one myself.
In the morning we go to Villa Farnesina, an estate built for the banker Agostino Chigi in the 15th century. The fresco in the entry hall is an ode to Cupid and Psyche, portraying the impossible tasks Cupid’s mother, Aphrodite, sets for her son’s lover. Our tour guide tells us this story was chosen by the artist because Agostino famously loved the Venetian courtesan Imperia, and they lived in sin (aka unmarried) at this estate. On the ceiling are various cornucopias, a grand variety of fruits and vegetables, many of which were new to the old world and seen as exotic during the time. Much of these ornaments on the fresco, such as the squash and pomegranate, are symbolic of fertility, and meant to be a generous offering to the couple in residence.
We do dinner that evening at Pierluigi’s. Grilled langoustines to start and linguine with tuna ‘nduja for after. I’m supposed to be remembering the wines but my mind releases the label from memory once the bottle slips back into the tableside bucket. The restaurant is obviously quite famous, their modelesque hostess commanding the door like an admiral as others beg for a table, and I wish we had arrived with friends to eat through the entire menu. My client feels a bit more calorie-minded, ordering us four langoustines rather than my suggested six.
Americans always tell you that they went to Italy, ate a mountain of carbs daily, and still lost weight. They delight in this as if it’s magic and not mere thermodynamics. Losing weight is rarely what I seek from a vacation, and this sentiment from Americans is something I take as a personal challenge. The last time I was here, I was eating four meals a day, gluttoned on a two week trip for a chef’s wedding. Fourteen days through Sienna, Firenze, and Milan with a group of midwestern raised men determined to find the god particle, culinarily speaking, and get wine-drunk on the journey there. As they say, when in Rome…
The following morning we begin our day at Villa Colonna, a 14th century palace in the center of the city. Our tour guide Silvia mentions that the estate is one of the best maintained, and that the Colonna family still holds residence here. The tall walls of the parlor are lined with paintings, many of which were brought into the family’s collection through dowry. The effect is maximalist, and still one is drawn in by the elegance, astounded by beauty facilitated through unimaginable wealth. A monument to money well spent and gone.
Even its opulence, it is evident that the patrons were attempting to put man in touch with God. None of that protestant shite here, religion in the catholic empire is meant to be beautiful, aesthetics worthy of inspiring. In truth, it does feel this way, the direct line to the holy spirit being somewhere in the grand ceiling of the frescos with your face pointed upward for so long it feels like he just might drop a touch of redemption back down on you.
While Villa Colonna was not by any means a public space at the time of its founding, it is still clear that the family through multiple generations has been crucial in the production of Italian culture and preservation. Naturally, it was the only way to ensure the world would remember you after death, real legacy. The neo-aristocracy of today has no interest in cultural production, as death is something they believe they may evade. As much as they are told we live in the future, they are somehow set back into the Qin Dynasty on the quest for immortality in pill form. Trans-humanism has replaced catholicism, and cultural production suffers as billionaires who look like animorphed eels prod us to “buy the dip” and listen to “red scare.” Perhaps the world will be fortunate when the next empire falls as America will have no library of Alexandria to lose.
In the evening we go to La Terrazza at the top of The Eden Hotel. The restaurant has a classic fine dining interior with white glove service and a gorgeous view of the city. We are again reminded that it is the peak of mushroom season, and our server shows us a lovely basket of white truffles. There is an entire tasting tonight which honors the white truffle, but I fear it may be too exhausting for my palette. Truffle is one of those things that has become so bastardized that rarely the true essence of the fungi is available in its trendy products. The flavor so centered on richness it becomes sharp, unavailable from nuance and tragic in its simulacra.
We decide to do two courses rather than a full tasting, but shortly after ordering I spring to add the truffle pasta as a supplement. There must be something about the psychology of looking at a food before you are served, the anticipation building up, making you wait. For my first course I order the roasted fennel, perfectly caramelized and set in dots of three sauces. They are rich, earthy, and all vegetable forward which contrasts nicely with the sweetness brought out of the bulb. There is also a marvelous bread basket brought out that appears to have an unleavened variety, perhaps an ode to the city’s ancient recipes. This thread is found also in my second dish, which is a small steak medallion with garum and shiso leaf. Garum is an ingredient that has captured my interest for a while now, mainly due to the fact that this ancient condiment has gone from universal in application to nearly extinct in modern use. It is often compared to both asian fish sauce and worcester sauce (likely because of similarity in viscosity), and traditionally was made by throwing the entrails and bones of small fish into a vessel with seawater, left to ferment in the sun. Naturally, it is very salty and uniquely funky. I absolutely had to try it.
The steak dish in its entirety is incredibly rich and umami. I’m not really one for beef, as I’ve spent a third of my life either vegetarian or vegan, and I wish there were a more central vegetal component to maybe bring some crispiness or earthiness to the plate. The shiso has that cutting effect but not near enough for my preference. In these circumstances I can be particular. Luckily dessert provides beyond my wildest dreams with fig leaf ice cream, delicate biscuit, and persimmon cream– My favorite taste of fall. Before we leave, a server comes by with a manual kakigori machine. A large puck of clear ice sits in the heart of the contraption, spinning as she cranks the handle. Fluffy snow falling from the blade into the small bowl beneath. The whole order feels a touch strange, like it should be in a totally different restaurant (maybe DiverXO), but nonetheless I’m thrilled to receive a frozen treat on any occasion. My client and I both spring for the cherry, rather than yuzu, and it is the satisfying conclusion to a meal which says, “We like to have fun..Don’t take it too seriously.”
On our walking tour the next day, our guide points out a building across from the Altare della Patria as the Palazzo Braschi, home to Mussolini’s headquarters during the Italian fascist period. One can picture the infamous facade, a stone face floating above, dotted with “si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si si” all the way down. As we continue to stroll, we cross a very small “No Kings” protest composed exclusively of expat Americans. My client asks the tour guide what Italians think about our country and she tells us Italians don’t really care, emphasizing the country’s corruption and elected fascist Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni. “We have bigger fish to fry,” she says.
For lunch, we hit a dud… every vacation has at least one. It is a universal truth that you can’t win them all, and as a tourist you’re always put at a disadvantage for finding restaurants no matter how well researched one is. We take the recommendation of a sales associate of a knitwear store who points us in the direction of a truffle centered restaurant with an english name. She does this because she knows we are Americans. While the wine selection and salad were great, I knew immediately we were headed for trouble when our pasta dishes arrived. My client and I had ordered a cacio e pepe and a carbonara, since we hadn’t had either yet on the trip. To my horror, it appeared both dishes had been prepared with cream… in Italy this is sacrilege. A corruption intolerable by locals, I soon noticed that there were no Italians seated in this restaurant… only other Americans (you can always tell by how we dress) and a wealth of East Asian tourists (always the victim to gimmicky high-end food). When the server cleared our plates, both half finished, he didn’t bat an eye, simply carrying the dishes away without a word as if he knew the lie as well.
Later we head to Al Moro for the earliest dinner reservation Italy allows.. 7:30pm. The hostess does not have our reservation, lost somewhere in the pages of a decades old ledger stuffed with loose paper and pencils, but luckily since we’re arrived early it’s possible to snag a table. We order sardines, burrata, and I get an order of tripe since this is the first time I’ve seen it on a menu. I also order pasta all’amatriciana but the waiter ignores my wish delivered in broken Italian.
As we dine, I ask my client if he has any regret voting for Trump a second time, given the proliferating and evident ramifications our country is dealing with as a result. I reflect on fascism here and the remorse Italians had after they had elected Mussolini, wondering if Americans will soon feel the same. I’m a bit wine drunk at this moment, but we’ve known each other for years now and have a certain type of rapport. Afterall, what could be a more genuine girlfriend experience than arguing about who you voted for over dinner? He gives a non-answer practically lifted from the Dick Cheney school of public speaking, known unknowns, etc. The line we agree on is that we’re pals, not comrades.
In the morning I decide to walk to a church and get stuck behind a maze of marathon barricades behind the colosseum. There is no way out, and as the streets start to fill with runners crossing the finish line, I adjust my course. It’s already 11am and I’ve skipped breakfast, so I head to a Sichuan restaurant that’s open this early. Every Euro trip has the eventual day where you, as an Asian person, need to eat Asian food or else something bad is going to happen. I’m also always curious to see how Asian cuisine shifts in different regions, adjusting for local differences in taste and product availability. Chinese cooking is the best to gauge this in my opinion, since we all know what Chinese-American food tastes like and if you live in a major American city, you’ve probably had some of the more authentic dishes from the Eight Great Traditions of Chinese Cuisine (Sichuan, Cantonese, Hunan, Ahui, Fujian, Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Shandong).
Since it is just me I get the Jiaozi– which are listed on the menu as ravioli– and dry pot mala cabbage. After living in Indonesia, I crave spice in a fiendish way, and it’s almost painful to think of European dishes as unsatisfying… hence the necessity of this meal. The jiaozi are handmade, indicated by how they are folded, with a perfectly chewy skin and rich, fatty pork filling. The dry pot satisfies my urges, well rounded spices and healthy amount of dried peppers, but a bit sweet. They could have gone all the way with the heat but I understand their reservation here– Most of their clientele are probably locals.
Dinner is Dal Borghese. I’m feeling vegetarian so I order spinach tortelloni. My client gets a giant plate of calamari as his entree, and I envy such a bold choice. It has the same type of swagger as the sixteen scoop sundae at The Plaza, though more attuned to my savory tastes. I look around and the dining room is, yet again, filled with more Americans. I wonder how much of this sector is held up by our tourism. The long table across from us is hosting a crowd of younger guys, speaking loudly about Elon Musk, ai, and other social ailments these types love to revel in. I ask what my client thinks about Musk, and he mentions his success being emblematic of the American dream, doing the bootstraps thing, and I have the gleeful position of exposing this fib universally adored by wealthy conservatives.” His father had an emerald mine!” I announce, crushing the image of a rags to riches Anglo South African. I realize that perhaps we don’t get the same internet, our various pieces of information almost crafted by hand for people of different ilks. I wonder where the turn is in the pipeline, how both of us arrived at each point. Maybe the divergence is more pronounced, a time of hypernormalization and immense difference birthing extremes.
For many, Italy is romantic, but for me it just reminds me of America. Perhaps it’s because the America I know is very tri-state, but the two feel bound to each other, tangled in history. Italians speak generously of Americans, specifically in reference to our troops liberating them in World War Two. Our countries are aligned in this sense, oscillating between fighting fascism and electing it. Though the American tourist is frequently obtuse to this, the starkness in similarity is undeniable. We flatten our countries for the sake of beauty or pride, but it’s a bit difficult to come off as our country unveils a bonafide Salò-esque operation at the core of our power. Fellini’s satire, revived as America’s dream.
In the fourth season of The Sopranos, members of the family return to the motherland to broker a deal with a Camorra in Napoli. Paulie, whose family is from the region, meanders outside hoping to be welcomed back into his ancestral region. In broken Italian, he attempts to make conversation with men at a cafe but is shouldered off. He is further away from home than ever before. The snub is taken poorly, the rejection symbolic of a heritage which has forgotten him and denied his blood. The truth is in fact the opposite; Italy is a place which remembers, America is the one which forgets.