Standing on the cobblestones, there is loud rock blaring and a crowd of watchers have gathered to take in the young Italians putting on an impromptu concert that is building to a crescendo. I am with my sister Jennifer and her husband Kyle in the Trastevere neighbourhood and we are steps from the shore of the Tiber taking in the deep blue skies and balmy weather, watching the crowds of people gather and disperse in waves. We have been walking for a few hours already and have crossed over from the nearby Testaccio area. Our feet are tired and we just need to rest for a bit and find a seat where we can. In the small open space that these Roman neighbourhoods allow, we see groups of tourists gathering with a guide holding a recognizable and small flag – a beacon that will lead them on the inevitable food tours that have become popular in this neck of the woods. Taking this break to think, I can picture the three of us wandering around the narrow lanes of the neighbourhood, tasting here and there, laughing merrily while we try the latest delectable culinary find. However, it doesn’t quite work that way. Most places expect you to at least have a sit down meal, maybe an extended dinner – do as the Romans do, as they say.
It’s finally our appetites that lead us into the small streets. It is a sunny day, but the shade between buildings provide some much needed relief from the heat and humidity that pervades the city, even in October. We had agreed to go to a small restaurant, Dar Poeta, and I was using my phone GPS to try to navigate the maze of streets. Given the amount of people in the square, it was surprising that the streets were relatively uncrowded with the occasional pedestrian or motorbike passing by. Maybe we were getting off of the tourist trail, finding the secret alleys where the real Romans hang about, as if we would turn a corner and find a secret convoy of Etruscans guarding the entrance of a locals only eatery.
We soon find ourselves walking down a narrow street on our mission to locate our lunch, passing the centuries old stone buildings and hearing the sound of our steps echoing off of the walls. A couple of turns, and then a couple of more turns and I think we’ve located the street. It’s down an alley that looks much narrower than the already small streets we are walking on. We head down and it starts to open up into a bigger space and can see an artist’s work space located across from the restaurant’s entrance and motorbikes parked further down the lane. Given the option, we choose to sit outside and are given a seat at a table made up of two small tables placed together. What can I say, the tables are wobbly and at an angle that just allows the food not to slide off – I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. The most common drinks to order with dinner appear to be water and wine, so we order a round of sparkling water and a litre of the house vino rosso.
The wine comes out in a glass jug reminiscent of those classic Kool-Aid jugs that we’re all so familiar with. I can’t help but imagine that nearby one of these brick walls will break down and out will jump a slightly inebriated wine filled Kool-Aid man, “OHH YEAHHH, WINE TIME”, except maybe with an Italian accent and perhaps an additional “SALUTI! SALUTI!” while wildly gesticulating. But my imagination is running away with me and we each pour a glass in preparation for our meal. As I sit there I have more time to examine the artists studio across the way. The door is open and I see numerous paintbrushes, canvasses and paint splashed here and there; a tradition stemming from the time of the old Italian patrons and the Renaissance and I wonder if there are still patrons funding the creation of such art. Exploring further, I see the more modern version in the graffiti that lines the streets, a patronless and probably thankless mode of art, but a very pervasive one these days – an outlet for the youth. This provides us with the scenery for our dinner.
Our food comes to the table. Dar Poeta has a reputation for serving a great pizza and this one does not disappoint. The pizza comes to the table uncut, as does most pizza in Rome, and we are provided with a fork and knife to dig in. The pizza is a work of art, with whole black olives shiny on top with torn pieces of fresh mozzarella di bufala generously scattered on top. Cutting in the steam comes out and the tomato sauce lightly spills over on to the plate. The crust is lightly crisp, salty and delicious. This is exactly what I was looking for. I like to share my experiences, but I don’t take the standard food photo and the three of us just savour the moments sitting in the shaded street, drinking in the surroundings of the ancient walls and cobblestone. I am grateful to find myself in this particular alley in Rome.
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