Song for Rome Pt 1

A song for romance. A song for the eternity of love. A song for cobblestones and yellow streetlights.

Dance Me to the End of Love. Written by Leonard Cohen. Performed by The Civil Wars.

No Copyright Infringement intended.

The Pizza Quest and Gelateria del Teatro

Rome Part One. 

DB Bahn you have competition. Trenitalia knows how to do it. Complimentary prosecco for those in 1st Class, 24 hr wi-fi for one cent. 

Our train from Venice put us into Rome late afternoon. We got our introduction to the Rome metro, descending upon escalator to escalator into the recesses of the ground to be whisked quickly across the city towards our hotel, a twenty minute walk from the Vatican. 

We were hot. We were sweaty. We still had the pizza from Mestre in our minds. We kicked off our boots and took a walk. One of the recommended spots were found was a place called La Gatta in the Monteverde backwoods. We were just eager enough that La Gatta wasn't even open by the time we got there. We killed some time chowing down on some cannoli and grabbing a drink at a bar across the street. I was introduced to Aperol and what an Aperol spritz is. That is a lot of orange-coloured fun in a stemmed wine glass.

La Gatta specializes in thin crust pizza, when in reality apparently they keep a foot in either camp of paper thin Roman crust and fluffy, chewy Neopolitan. The crust in Mestre was paper thin, floppy almost. La Gatta had the crust that you saved to eat after the pizza was done. We tried a margherita pizza, as part of our research project using Mestre as our benchmark, and a pizza bianco (meaning no tomato sauce) with mushrooms, mozzarella and sausage to finish. 

Mestre won. It was really quite quick. 

La Gatta's pizza, excellent. For places to eat in Rome, especially pizza places, I would recommend La Gatta (and don't use Google Maps to get there). But Mestre had a furious hold on us. 

The next day, we headed out. Armed with our map, we wandered the riverside. There is a reason they call Rome the Eternal City because it would take you an eternity to see everything. When you are there for a limited amount of time, you limit what you want to see. You pick the big things and you forget the things that just won't fit. But if you had the time, you could walk Rome FOR DAYS. Taking from our time in Venice, we wandered and figured things out as we walked. We saw the Spanish Steps, which lead from Piazza del Spagna to Piazza del Monti. We took in what is supposed to be the best cannoli in Rome at Dagnino, which tasted like a donut and the flavour lingered in your mouth long enough that you contemplate walking halfway across Rome for another one.

You walk up to the Trevi Fountain as if it's just another street sign, the reach of Poseidon so much larger and the movement of the horses so much more dynamic than pictures can even suffice. A couple swats and elbowings through the crowd and an eventual climb over the railing, one can arrive at the edge of the fountain and flick a coin in for good luck. 

You get past the pizzerias hawking 11 euro pizzas to the famished Trevi Fountain seekers and you come upon Hadrian's Mall, the massive remnants of the first shopping mall. 

Down the steps and round the front, you are spit out in front of Altare Della Patria or Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emmanuele II, a monument to the first king of a unified Italy, Vittorio Emmanuele II. Most Romans hate it, thinking it to be an eyesore. It's either too white, too big, or the unfortunate reality that part of Capitoline Hill was destroyed in order to build it are cited as legitimate reasons to nickname it after a Italian take on English Trifle, which, I would suppose, isn't a compliment. 

Statue of Vittorio Emmanuelle II

We replicated pattern we have created thus far on this trip which is Moozh finds the best off-the-beaten-track foodie gem, and I take us to the Jewish Quarter. 

When doing our preliminary foodie research on Rome, we got pretty excited. No matter what you're in the mood for, or what your budget it, Rome will have your expectations beat. Salumeria Roscioli, located in the Centro Storico neighbourhood, tucked away behind the Argentina line and minutes away from the river, is what could crudely be described as a deli. I slap my own hand as I say that because it is so far beyond any deli you have ever seen. Upon entering, the right wall is lined front to back, floor to ceiling with local Italian wines, everything from plummy Barolos to chocolately, warm Sardinians, spicy Valpolicellas to inky Super Tuscans.

Roscioli's Bike 

What lies along the left side is what grabs you. Full legs of pancetta, proscuitto hang along the back wall. Balls of fresh buffalo mozzarella bob in water. Bowls of marinated artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers and wheels of cheese the size of sidewalk blocks. We wandered around, mouths agape until one gentle man behind the counter wrapped some goodies in white paper and gestured towards the bakery, their sister restaurant, down the next lane. We didn't bother with bread. We didn't bother with sitting before we tore the packages open. A salty wedge of pecorino romano, translucent slices of proscuitto and two marinated artichokes kept us busy as we planned our next move. 

Best finger food ever. 

By this point I was beginning to realize that the Spaniards were getting a run for their money. Italians are beautiful. Beautiful in a dark, swarthy way I can't explain. My lovely friend Karin back in Van passed along to me an old saying her Mama used to have. "Warm weather, warm people. Cold weather, cold people" in a way to explain the friendliness and reservedness of a culture. A framework to which Canadians fit perfectly. 

I would, in certain circumstances, extend that to say 'Hot weather, Hot people", especially throughout Europe. But maybe there's just something in the water. Anytime we were near the Mediterranean, there were just beautiful people left, right and centre. I think I commented each time I saw a beautiful person while I stuffed my face with whatever Roman delicacy was in front of me. 

The No Reservations episode of Rome is a perfect example of just what The Travel Channel will do for Anthony Bourdain. They'll dress him up. They'll showcase his wife. They'll film the entire episode in Black and White, as his tribute to Federico Fellini. But while Bourdain, though sometimes on the obnoxious side of eccentric, still knows how to choose 'em. After our artichokes, we sauntered along the river, shaded in the speckled light, past Trebi Island, towards the upwardly cool and popular neighbourhood of Trastevere. We are on the hunt for Roma Sparita.

To this, my husband said, "What's that? Casa del Awesome!" We are meant to be. 

Again, in our eagerness, we are forced to kill time until it opens. We wander around Santa Cecilia just in time to see a newly wedded couple spill out. We got married in the summer so we are fully aware of what wedding traffic looks like in the summer months. (We know people who got married each day the weeks leading up to and following our wedding, as well as someone on the same day.) But I have been amazed to have seen so many weddings since we've been travelling. And I always have to see her dress. It's a girl thing.

We wander back out into the courtyard to the sound of celebratory music of another wedding's reception in an upstairs dining room. We head to what I figured would probably be my haunt if I lived in Rome, a tiny bar aptly called "The Hole".

We take in two classically Italian aperitifs, a Negroni and a Sbagliato, as the light turns peachy and Roma Sparita is open for business. Roma Sparita specializes in pasta, and it was to be our one, and only, deviation from our pizza 'research'.

It keeps to the classics and does them right. Moozh had the amatriciana, a sauce of tomato, pecorino cheese, and pork, slathered on tube-like noodles. I had the cacio e pepe, or cheese and pepper pasta, served in a playful parmesan cheese bowl.

Fried squash blossoms, a summer seasonal speciality in Rome

Walking Trastavere at night is like stumbling across one thing after the next, lit in spotlight. Up Via Guisseppe Garibaldi, we stumbled upon the Panoramio, which lived up to it's name.

Rounding the corner, you find Pontificio Collegio San Pietro Apostolo, another large monument centuries old that is now functioning as the centre of a traffic circle.

From there onwards, we quickly realized that Roman streets aren't really meant for pedestrians. We walked the entire Aurelia Antica, the entire 6 km of it, on a six inch shoulder. And with Italian drivers, like all European drivers, we certainly got an earful of what they thought.

Next stop, the Colosseum.

Rome served us up a greyish day to see what of it's most famous landmarks but the structures are no less majestic. Climbing the steps to the Capitoline, you see a replica of the oldest equestrian statue in the world, of Marcus Aurelius on horseback. Passing another wedding where the bride loves big hair, we passed under an archway to a panorama of the Roman Forum.

Moozh figured out how to drink from the fountains that we've been seeing everywhere in Europe. The whole time we had been slurping from the palm of our hands, splashing our entirety with water, when had we simply plugged the spout of the faucet, there is a small hold drilled at the curve of the faucet that  turns it into an easily accessible stream. Go figure.

Passing the gates to the Palatine and the Roman Forum, the Arch of Constantine rises in front of you with the window laced facade of the Colosseum. We had invested in a Roma Pass that garnered us to jump the line at the Colosseum and free public transit in the city, as well as free entry to one other museum in the city. The transit pass definitely made a difference to us as we were staying a little bit outside the historic centre of the city. But it really came in handy as we were walking up to the Colosseum to see a healthy line of people snaking through the admissions line outside. A quick scan of our pass and we were in.

From the outside, the Colosseum is huge. But once you get inside, it feels much bigger. The rows and rows of seats that must have existed at one point is staggering but the tunnels below ground, which would have held gladiators, lions, bears and large pits truly is an engineering marvel. Gladiator wasn't lying.

Next was what used to be one of the last free historical sites in Rome, the Roman Forum. It has now become part of a package, in which you pay for the Colosseum and can then see the Roman Forum and the Palatine museum. The fact that some of these ruins are still in existence given the time and history that has past in the meantime puts it so much in perspective.

They can start to just look like a bunch of crumbling rock. But then you realize the age of each of these things, and their purpose back in their day. That's when you realize how small you are. And how impermanent.

We headed from the Colosseum back over to Centro Storico to try out Roscioli's sister restaurant, Roscioli Al Forno, with high expectations for their pizza bianco. Closed on Sundays. Ok.
Across the street, Chowhounders had raved about a pizza place with cheap margherita pies called Pizza Florida. Closed Sundays and Mondays. Hmm.
With Roscioli Al Forno closed for the day and no Pizza Florida, we took in pizza al taglio, which means pizza by the slice, at a small joint called Pizza Art. Now pizza al taglio is a common way that 'fast food' pizza joints do pizza in Rome. These places put the whole concept of pizza by the slice to shame. Slabs topped with goats cheese, pancetta and artichoke hearts or squash blossoms and fresh tomatoes, the pizza is cut and then priced by weight. This is not thin crust pizza. This is a focaccia-like crust, piled high with delicious toppings. You can try as many different kinds, slices of any size. We could have stayed there all afternoon.

But it's good we didn't!  Any preconceptions I had about gelato from the stuff we had in Venice was blown out of the water. Gelateria del Teatro is by far the best and most inspirational gelato I have EVER had, anywhere ever, and will ever in my life. It was like going to Pierre Herme and having the skies part and Saint Honore herself billow down to hand me something that would so redefine and inspire my desires for my pastry career. Now I have mentioned before that I have a bit of a bizarre palate. I love flavour combinations, presentation methods and ingredients that surprise me, intrigue, that make me want to pursue them. I had Lavender and White Peach along with Basil and White Chocolate. Moozh had Sicilian Wine Cream and Raspberry and Garden Sage. Each flavour had balance and beautiful freshness. I would have gone back to try everything they had.

Make some pasta. Add some cheese. Add some pepper. That's all you need. And maybe some wine.

Things I learned in Rome:
Pizza al Taglio = bomb dignity.
When in Rome, always keep your eyes open or you will miss something that is just hidden enough.

Quote from Rome Pt 1:
Moozh: "Babe, you do this weird chicken thing when you talk. It's like you're pecking your point across."
Runner Up:
Moozh: "You know why Rome wasn't built in a day. Because nobody here knows what the f*** they're doing."

Song for Venice

Because I couldn't find anything with accordion. And nothing makes you want to clap more than a sunny day along the canals.

Property of Anathallo.

Da Vinci, Shylock and a 24 hr pizza chain

Just as we climbed up the continent INTO Berlin, we took the LONG journey back down into the Mediterranean end. It was tricky getting down into Italy in one day. There were plenty of options to ride from midday onwards with a connecting night train that would land us in Venice the next day. Our desire, and our necessity, was to do it in one day and let's just say it required a LOT of running around. We were ON our connecting train, that was supposed to go through Linz, when we were told that there was extensive rail construction happening and there was a detour by bus. With our longest transfer time clocking in at about fifteen minutes, we didn't have time for that. Back into Prague. We had one of those 'exhilarating' moments where you are jumping onto your train as it is pulling away. It feels slightly less exhilarating when you are humping 50 lb packs on your back and missing that train means you are quite literally done for the day, having just flushed money down the toilet. 

But we caught that train. And that train was going to Munich. Again we trucked through fields that looked as if they had been groomed by a decorative comb, neat lines of swaying grass and grain. Again, past the town that looked like a settlement map made out of Lego pieces. Once again into a bahnhof that looked like a dissertation on glasswork in architecture. We love us some Deutsch Bahn by now. 

"There is a construction", they said. You're kidding. "You will get off at Innsbruck. Onto a bus. They will take you here. Back on the train." 

As an aside, it is nice that people talk to you in broken sentences when they can tell you don't speak their language. There is no need for prepositional phrases or pronouns. Gimme the goods. 

Rolling into Brennero, people in DB Bahn polo shirts rubbed the backs of all the North American tourists who felt stressed out and didn't know what to do. We all shuffled onto coach buses which were henceforth driven like the Kentucky Derby. That Italian highway was made subservient. It seemed in no time at all, we were pulling into the train station and doing the same shuffle back onto the coach cars. 

We drove 40 km and only lost ten minutes. 

We were back on, rolling towards Verona, from which point we were home free. There didn't seem to be a moment when the landscape started to look 'Italian'. But I suppose that shows that I was expecting that. Slowly, the forests began to thin out, any grass was replaced by lanes of grapevines and reading any sign aloud became worthy of more intense gesticulation. 

Two headlights appeared out of the darkness and we were on our way out of Verona and into Venezia Mestre. Mestre is, from all appearances, the cheaper, less attractive sibling to Venice. Buses run all day, everyday into Venice proper. From our hotel, the ride took ten minutes. It's definitely more affordable to stay in Mestre and when we were rearranging some of our train trips, we decided to stay one night in Mestre, when we would be tired, when we wouldn't care where we were. We would have been travelling all day and all we would need would be a bed. Why waste a pricey night in Venice on that? The night was cool and dark, we made the pilgrimage from the train station to our hotel, past cafes of Italians, still taking into the night with a cocktail. 

We'll just sleep through Mestre, we thought. Mestre is really just a brief interlude before the main production anyway. 

NOT SO!

A full day on an empty stomach. When you're cush on your tush, you can do it almost without thinking. But something about running, about being 'on the go', makes it easier said than done. While I needed a hot shower pronto, Moozh decided that he was going to take a walk to grab something to take the edge off. A bag of chips maybe? Instead, he brought back what we later deemed to be the best thin crust pizza in Italy. From a 24 hr pizza chain a couple of blocks down the road. I remember thinking, "This can only bode well." 

We inhaled the pizza by the shred -Italians don't slice their pizza- while we watched National Geographic in Italian. Something about mountain goats, I don't remember. I truly don't even remember chewing. The crust was like eating off of the most tender, deliciously chewy paper you can imagine. And I do mean that complimentarily. The sauce was the secret weapon. It was tart and acidic as tomatoes should be, with a beautiful sweetness, and mouth puckering combination.

Venice has an otherworldly beauty. It is said to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But it's not the classical beauty of it, the canals and the gondoliers and St. Mark's Square. It's the cracking stucco revealing ancient foundation beneath and the elderly women hanging their laundry to dry from their second story window and watching the foot traffic below. Old men sit and paint the landscape without a single f*** given. 

We were housed in a tiny hotel called Ca'Zose behind the Peggy Guggenheim museum, run by two sisters. Ivy covered the walls, a bridge with an ironwork bannister. The room are a playful fusion of frilly Venetian floral sconces and bed spreads laced with filigree matched with painted brick back drops and exposed beams. 

Even though we were there hours before the check-in time, one of the sweet sisters let us stash our packs so we could wander the lanes of custom blown glasswork and galleries unencumbered. We put our map in our pocket and just got lost for an hour, weaving through the canals, lined with boats tethered to painted poles and the coloured facades of buildings. 

Following the canal, you inevitably end up at the Rialto Bridge, which is the biggest bridge in Venice. Arching high above the canal, the bridge itself houses numerous shops but spills out on either side with restaurants, cafes and trinket shops. On the West side, however, wandering through archways, you find yourself in a giant market. Full of fresh produce, spices and fish it's a wonderland for foodies. Made Moozh wish we were staying somewhere with a kitchen where we could take advantage of the plenty. 

There is a hilarious trend we're forming. Anytime we are in a market of any kind, when we wander into the fish section, some guy gets a lock on Moozh's tatt and immediately makes his way over. We've had some ask Moozh to take his entire shirt off, some poke and prod, slowly rotating his arm, but more often than not we've had people drag him over to their buddies so they can all see it. The stand in the Rialto Fish market actually had a large Marlin head on display. They kept on gesturing towards it as if they and Moozh were in on the joke together. And it never stops being funny to see it happen everywhere we go. 

Again, check out Fly the Cage if you're in the market for ink. 

Hemingway is a well known entity among locals on the island. Hemingway apparently loved Venice and the Rialto market houses a few various posters of Hemingway during his visits.

For lunch, as we do, we stopped by a charcuterie and picked us up some proscuitto and some parma ham with two cans of Italian beer to wash it all down. The charcuterie was magnificent with whole legs hanging from the ceiling to be slice paper thin. Wedges of cheese gleamed beneath the chilled glass. Bottarga, cured and powdered fish roe, in kryo vac packages.

Next in our wanderings: gelato. I had been holding out since we hit Europe. I wouldn't eat gelato until we hit Italy. It's a bias I have because of the bias my Italian chef has. When he began to teach us about gelato, ice cream, sorbet, he always maintained you can't get quality gelato outside Italy. And the only thing halfway decent on this side of the Atlantic would be made by an Italian. I was willing to see his logic through. I will admit the gelato we had was pretty fantastic. 

So we moved on to the Venetian Ghetto. Of course, there is my general obsession with Jewish people and Jewish history. The Merchant of Venice is one of my favourite Shakespearean plays. Portia is such a strong character, a woman willing to put herself out there to accomplish what she wants, even when it's something like respect. But the character of Shylock provides such an interesting glimpse into the life of a Jew in that time. Doing the only occupation available to him, which stigmatizes him and forces him into further isolation, Jews were relegated into a dead ended canal that was locked after midnight. The Venetian Ghetto is where the word 'ghetto' originated. It comes from the word for a foundry in Venetian. It's a small area of town, the Jewish quarter of the city a small horseshoe of buildings. 

Now it houses a Jewish cultural centre, a thriving synagogue, and daily tours. Many kosher restaurants line the border of it. Majer bakery had every from flawless hamentaschen and rugelach to crystal dusted palmiers and cannoli, each ridge dusted with powdered sugar. The tension summed up in a moment: both Jewish and Italian at once.

Da Vinci in Italy is kind of Alexander Bell. Everyone claims him, on some grounds of where he was or wasn't when he accomplished this or that. Venice was no different. But when you listening to the African-cum-Blues music, you tend to want to side with whoever is in front of you at the moment. 

Venice has these great drinking fountains, dribbling with filtered, drinkable water. Many European cities do. I tried my first in Paris, from which I was positive that I was going to get a parasite. But the water is fresh, filtered, clean, soft and usually pleasantly cold. When it's as hot out as Europe has been, numerous refreshment stops are required 

From the early morning when we first landed, really until we swung back by our hotel to change, we had experienced fabulous weather our day in Venice. Sunny with a little bit of cloud cover and a slight wind. A change of clothes later, it was beginning to cloud over. 

We headed out towards St. Mark's Basilica and Square, which is supposed to be beautiful as the sun goes down. It, as most sites we've seen in Europe, was slapped with a healthy dose of scaffolding and strategically printed tarps made to look like the finished product draped over the facade. Construction does tend to deflate the moment a tad. But everything from Grand Place in Brussels to the Eiffel Tower in Paris has some kind of construction going on during the BUSIEST MONTHS of the year. Save it for October, gentlemen. 

It began to spit once we hit St. Mark's so after our requisite photos, we packed the camera away until we found a tiny restaurant, canal-side for dinner. Italy has a specialty called al Seppia, which means 'in squid ink'. You can get risotto al seppia. But Moozh was dying to get a taste of some linguini al seppia. He got his taste and I got to have the most spectacular gnocchi of my life, drenched in melted gorgonzola and dotted with roasted walnuts. The wind was beginning to whip and we had to acknowledge our day in Venice was coming to a close. 

The next morning we were leaving for Rome, the gleeful continuation of our Italian journey and a portion that we had dedicated to pizza. The pizza in Mestre had become a thing of myth in little more than twelve hours. It was on. 

Things I learned in Venice: 

Squid ink = suitable sauce

Pizza chains are not always a bad thing.

Sometimes it's okay to just get lost. 

Quote from Venice: 

Moozh: Look at this fish babe! Why don't I have a kitchen?!