Beyond the Pasta

       

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Una bella vista~

We were only there five nights, but Venezia made such a strong impression that it needs more than the previous blog posts to do it justice.

With Carnevale season here, I think it is appropriate to talk about the two sides of Venice that are reflected even in the weather. Previously, I have written about how people wanted me to notice the quality of light in Venice. When we first arrived it was overcast, drizzling, and grey. It remained that way for most of our time there. Life went on as usual, the Grand Canal was busy with boat and gondola traffic. However, we did have one incredibly sunny, clear, and warm day. That is when the other side of Venice showed its face, too.

With the weather perfect, we headed up the bell tower of San Giorgio Maggiore, designed by Andrea Palladio and begun in 1566. From here there is a 360-degree view of Venice, the surrounding islands, and the snowcapped Dolomites off in the distance. Every time the elevator opened at the top of the bell tower, the gasps of delight, each with their particular accent, from the exiting tourists were always the same~ 

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh~”

“Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh~”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh~”

 When you are walking the streets of Venice the city seems an unending twist of rabbit runs, an enormous wild warren of shops, ristoranti, leaning towers, museums, and piazzas. From above, the warren is revealed as a small and finite “land,” contained, restrained, and threatened by its watery perimeter. Water is Venice’s master and it is only when viewed from above that one feels its crushing impact upon the city.

We did not stay in the bell tower long enough to hear the bells rings next to us. We descended and walked the adjacent boat landing, turning to face the tower as the bells struck twelve and noticing the moon still visible next to the tower. Venezia is magical even at high noon.

Italians seem to have gardens tucked away everywhere. When we are in Rome, we are notorious for stopping as a car exits a palazzo or an alley from behind a large wooden door. While the door is open, the gate light flashing, and the car slowly pulling out, we are usually bent over or standing on our toes to see past the car into the now revealed courtyard. Without fail, a lush green garden with statuary or a fountain, or both, is on display for a brief and shining moment. Sometimes the security guard will give you a dirty look, thinking you are plotting a way in, but after the car leaves and the door starts to close, you catch their eye and say, “Bel giardino—Beautiful garden.” They smile, nod their head, and are secretly proud that you took a moment to revel in what they protect. Italians appreciate beauty and the acknowledgement of that beauty.

The cloister on the grounds of San Giorgio had a sweet garden—tucked behind locked gates and iron-barred windows. As well-dressed Italians, seeming more like dignitaries than everyday employees, let themselves in and out of the gates, I was lucky enough to capture a glimpse of the cloister. As I took my photo, one of the “dignitaries” stopped, caught my eye, gave me a nod of approval that said “Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it?”—allowing me to snap the photo before he continued on. 

The rest of the sunny day was spent much the same way…churches, buildings, towers, museums, hidden gardens as small as a window box, and an intimate lunch at Antica Locanda Montin.

There is never enough time to talk about everything one does in a day while visiting Italy, so I will end this post here knowing that there is always domani—tomorrow—to tell the rest.

The next posting will be about the restaurants in Venice and then we might move on to another town…maybe. 

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

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 Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Last week I ran into a friend from Mississippi and asked him how he was doing. In true Southern form he replied, “Blessed and encouraged.” I laughed because only in the South would you hear that response.

Surprisingly, “blessed and encouraged” has been running around in my Yankee head ever since. It is such a simple saying, but it is having a profound affect on me—it speaks to me in a way that I find difficult to explain. Maybe it is because as I look back over this past year and set my sights on the coming year, I find myself in the same place as my friend from Mississippi.

My wish for all of you this holiday season and 2010 is that you find yourself in a Mississippi “blessed and encouraged” moment of your own. Whatever you choose to call it, however it dawns on you, whenever it reveals itself—I hope it happens and, in that moment, brings you joy.

Con affetto,

Mark

***In 2010, videos of Nonna in the kitchen are coming to the site and some recipes, too!

-The photo is from a wood panel in the Vatican Museums, Rome.

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The last tree~

Since my return from our Italian vacation at the beginning of November, I have been working for friends at their quite popular flower shop in Birmingham, Alabama (http://www.flowerbudsinc.com/).  We have been decorating houses for Christmas—the first house was on November 15 and today was the last house. There is complete disbelief and seasonal horror at setting up an artificial tree on that first day of houses in November, but today there was something very joyful about hanging a fresh mixed pine and fir garland over the doorway of a large, lovely stone home out in the woods of rural, but developing, Alabama.

In Italy, the Christmas season does not seem to begin until December 1. Here, in America, we can barely get the jack-o-lanterns blown out and the vampires back into their coffins before we are decking the retail halls with boughs of holly. Thanksgiving, naturally, is not an Italian holiday and, except for the literal day, it barely seems a holiday in this country. There is a build up to Halloween and then the immediate shift to Christmas on November 1. I sometimes think that Thanksgiving is just a gluttonous trial run, a kickoff, to the impending holiday season—if you can gastronomically survive Turkey Day you are given the falsely satisfying notion that you’ll be able to survive the four-week onslaught of eggnog, cookies, and parties which culminate in a SECOND turkey with all the trimmings. I feel like loosening my belt again just thinking about it.

Our vacation to Italy this year was the first two weeks of November and last year’s vacation was the last two weeks. This year, the Italians were just starting to bring out the civic street decorations to hang as we were leaving (November 15). Last year, the last few days of November were when shops started converting their windows to Christmas displays and city crews were still in process of hanging street decorations. At the beginning of that late Nov. ‘08 vacation, the already hung snowflakes, bells, stars, and strings of colored lights in the streets remained unlit until the end of the month. We rounded the corner the evening of November 28 and the Christmas tree outside the Fendi shop on Via Corso, previously dark on other evening strolls, was lit—as were all of the street decorations throughout Rome. It seems that December 1 is the retail start of Christmas in Italy. Brava!

So, as I sit here listening to “Frosty the Snowman” on Sirius radio on a relatively chilly “wintery” night in the Deep South, I am paging through my red notebook of recipes that I cooked with Nonna. She gave me a recipe for Biscottini di Natale—Christmas Cookies—which are made with dark chocolate, almonds, hazelnuts, amaretto or limoncello, sugar, flour, eggs, butter, and lard. Ha! I think Nonna has one-upped Paula Dean’s fascination with butter by using lard. I have not made this recipe yet, so I have not converted it from metric. Maybe I’ll do that this week since I am in the holiday spirit—and my holiday shopping is done. If I do, I’ll pass it on; however, while living with the family in Viterbo, we did make two “holiday” treats—Crostoli and Ciambelline con patate.

Crostoli are diamond-shaped pieces of dough made with white wine and grappa, which are then fried in oil and dusted with powdered sugar. Ciambelline con patate are yeast doughnuts made with potatoes, marsala wine or limoncello, and fried in oil. They are then rolled in sugar while still warm. Buonissimi!!

Sirius is now “walking in a winter wonderland,” so I think I’ll start planning which of these Italian desserts to "walk" to some parties this weekend. Now that my belt has been loosened, post Thanksgiving, how can fried potato doughnuts be that bad??—Mamma mia!

 Buon Natale~

Mark

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Cazzo~

In high school I studied French—well, it would be closer to the truth to say that I sat in a class for three years where the teacher and two other students spoke French, while the rest of us were just thankful to not have to take Spanish from the hateful Seńora.

Regardless of one’s age, when learning a new language, one of the first tasks is to try to figure out how to cuss in that language. Remember how titillating the song lyric “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?” was in the 1970s? Instantly millions of Americans knew how to speak some sexy and slightly naughty French, or so they thought.

I remember the day in the first week of French class my freshman year when someone secretly shared the word merde—sh*t—with the rest of us in class. How we howled with laughter in the hallway going to our next classes. For the next month, we tried to incorporate our new foreign word into our everyday conversations. If a friend did something stupid, he was a merdehead. Drop something out of your locker and you could proudly disclaim “MERDE!” in front of everyone—they didn’t know what you meant and, since the word was foreign, technically, you weren’t swearing. Not know an answer in algebra and you instantly had merde for brains. There was no cleverness in our hunt for the perfect use of merde. The most nonsensical usage would send us all into hysterics for hours.

In America, we seem to have different levels of appropriateness for cuss, curse, or swear words. As children we all learn how to cuss—politely. Words like “shoot” “darn it” “crud” “gosh” “fudge” are all used in place of the swear words adults use. When I was little, the word “crap” would cause a flurry of condemnation from my parents. It was considered a cuss word. I was mortified when I came home year from college on Spring Break one year and heard my sister, who was 10, use “crap” at the dinner table in conversation. When she said it I flinched, because I knew she was going to get scolded, at the very least. But I flinched for nothing, no one else at the table reacted to it. My father kept eating, my mother filled her glass with pop, and my other sister and brother did not snicker at a “dirty” word being used at the table. It was as if she had used the word “daisies.” I was pissed—where had my family’s decency gone?

As we get older, the swear words we used as children get replaced by the adult versions. These adult versions are more acceptable in a wider, more public setting, but there are still limitations on when and where they should be used. It would be inappropriate to say to your grandmother at the table during Sunday lunch, “Shit grandma, you are one funny woman.” That same comment made to a friend over a beer at the local pub on a Saturday night would hardly make anyone blink twice. The slang names for certain body parts, both male and female, are included in this group, too. Naturally, there are words that one should never use, regardless of the situation and people present. The “c” word and the “f” bomb fall into this category.

Today’s “Word of the Day” is CAZZO. It is an Italian swear word—a not so very polite Italian swear word. It is a word that I learned from an American friend of mine before I traveled to Italy for the first time in 2001. Cazzo falls into the “male body part” category, but it also falls into the “I just spilled a glass of milk all over my desk” category. This is not something typical of an American swear word. My mother might say “s**t” under her breath if she screwed something up, but she would never say “c**k.” Naturally, it makes no sense in English and I have yet to figure out how it works as it does in Italian.

Several weeks ago, while we were in Venice, we stopped by a Pasticceria—a pastry shop—to purchase several special and very Venetian desserts to take with us to Viterbo and give to the family. Usually we arrive with flowers, but this time I thought it would be more appropriate to arrive with some Venetian treats, since Nonna is from that part of Italy.

We entered the shop and I waited for the woman working there to finish with other customers before trying to be cute and use my infantile Italian to show her how charming I was by attempting her native tongue. Just as I started, another customer entered the shop. Knowing that my transaction was going to take some time, given that I speak slowly and that I wanted an assortment of pastries, I waved the pastry woman on to help her newly arrived customer. The customer was French and this seemed to irritate the woman. As she begrudgingly helped the French customer, more French citizens arrived to ask her questions about products, pointing to objects and indicating that they wanted to “look” at the item with their hands and not only with their eyes. With every interaction and transaction, the woman would say “cazzo.” And she was not trying too hard to conceal her frustration with France—she was speaking in full voice.

Finally, the traffic in and out of the shop ceased and it was again my turn at bat with the woman. In Italian, I explained to her that I going to be traveling to see my grandmother in Viterbo and that I wanted to bring her some pastries from Venice because she grew up in this area. I then apologized—Mi dispiace, il mio Italiano non è buono—for how bad my Italian was. Usually, this garnishes a complimentary response from my Italian counterpart—No, no, no. Il tuo Italiano è molto buono. I usually thank them for thinking that my Italian is really good and then I continue to speak and slaughter their native tongue right in front of their smiling and encouraging faces. I did not get the usual response from this Italian woman.

“Don’t worry. In Italian schools, they don’t teach Italian either. My son is taught English as a primary language and either French or Spanish as a secondary language. Cazzo! It is true. They expect our kids to learn Italian at home. Cazzo!” she replied, in an unending tirade about Italian schools.

I couldn’t believe that she was cursing in front of me. I had never heard an Italian swear in conversation with me. When I lived with the family, they never swore—or, at least, I never figured out that they were if it indeed was happening. Nonna would drop something on the floor and instead of saying “damn,” she would just huff and call herself an idiot. I never learned any choice expletives while staying there.

“Cazzo!”—Another French tourist had walked in, and the woman tiredly swore and left me to help a guy buy a bottle of water.

She returned shortly and muttered something to me, which was spoken too fast for me to understand, and then said, “Va' fa'n culo.” WOW! That expression is quite vulgar (it tells a person to go "f" himself) and I have no idea why she said that of the Frenchman as he left. As we continued to select pastry, she continued to complain about the linguistic deficiencies of her son’s school—all the while, peppering her conversation with “cazzo.” Eventually, we left with two bags of pastries, burning ears, and a great story.

The next day we traveled to Viterbo to see the family and I plated the pastries, serving them after we finished our meal—Nonna made short ribs in a tomato sauce. The sauce was served with penne pasta and the ribs were served separately as the second course.

There were “ohs” and ahs” as we were thanked for being so kind in bringing treats. Well, I immediately had to tell them the story of the “Cazzo donna”—c**k lady. The table erupted when I said that and they wanted to know more.

I explained the process, and conversation, of buying the pastries. They howled with laughter every time the woman swore in the story. When I got to the “va' fa'n culo”  moment, Marianna (Alessandra’s 29-year-old daughter) jumped in the conversation and said, “Oh Mark, you should have told her, “I see you were educated at Oxford.” I choked on my pastry as we all laughed with Marianna. She is very clever, as is the entire family for that matter.

Merde, I love Italy!

Mark

**The photo is of a statue in the exhibit of Etrsucan and Roman artifacts at the Vatican museums. The statue is complete above the navel, but I thought this angle was more apropos.

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Beyond words…

There are times when words alone cannot explain or paint a complete enough description of an object. That is how I feel about the carved AD 2^ndStupefacente! The National Museum of Rome (http://www.reidsguides.com/destinations/europe/italy/lazio/rome/sights/mnr_palazzo_massimo.html ) houses a collection of statuary (marble and bronze), frescoes, and mosaics that is not to be believed. I added a couple of photos of some of the mosaics. century sarcophagus in the photos. It is a battle scene between Romans and Germanic barbarians.

We stumbled upon this museum in 2008 and drooled on the 2^nd floor as we watched them in the process of installing a new corridor of the mosaics exhibit. We had to go back this year and stand in front of what we could only peek at last year. Yes, we drooled again.

The day started with the morning service at All Saints Anglican Church (http://www.allsaintsrome.org/ ), followed by lunch at La Fontanella (http://www.lafontanellaborghese.it/index.php ). We kept lunch simple by only ordering a first and second course, skipping the antipasti. We had the same pasta for our first course (remember in Italy, the first course is the pasta course): Fettuccine alla puntenesca (a pasta made famous by the ladies-of-the-evening who often cooked this simple and quick dish for their late-night clients). For the second course, I had the Pollo alla cacciatore (chicken, hunter-style) and Richard had the Involtini di melanzane di buffala mozzarella (eggplant rolled up with fresh mozzarella chesse in the center). It was a great lunch before heading off to the National Museum of Rome at the Palazzo Massimo.

After the museum, we spent the rest of our second day in Rome wandering through churches and looking forward to our meal at Pierluigi (http://www.pierluigi.it/EN/home_en/index_en.php ). A photographer we met at a recent photo shoot suggested it to us—here is a link to Christopher Baker’s photography in the book Tulipa (http://www.amazon.com/Tulipa-Photographers-Botanical-Willem-Lemmers/dp/1579651224 ). His assistant, Paola—a Roman, suggested Pierluigi, too. There is nothing better than getting a restaurant suggestion directly from a Roman—especially, when you are going to be in Rome.

Pierluigi is somewhat off the beaten track, and although there were other tourists at the tables, most of the tables were occupied by Italians—some were well-dressed businessmen and their clients. The interior is hung with a diverse collection of artwork and at times the clientele was as eclectic as what was hanging on the walls.

Our meal started off with a glass of prosecco, an Italian sparkling white wine. Think of it as the Italian version of champagne, although people into wine will correct me about that. We ordered our way through the menu and, for all of you wine lovers, we ordered a Brunello di Montalcino, Il Marroneto, Madonna della Grazie, 2004 (http://www.ilmarroneto.it/prodotti.php ). 

Our antipasti were: Tartare di melanzane e ricotta di buffala (sliced eggplant with buffalo milk ricotta cheese) and Sautè di cozze (sautéed mussels). Our first course, the pasta course was: Ravioli di pesce di mare (seafood ravioli) and Paccheri con tonno (a thick pasta noodle with tuna). Our second course was: Scallopine con la pepe rosa (Veal scallopine served with pink peppercorns) and Carpaccio di manzo con ruchetta e parmigiano-reggiano (Thinly sliced beef served with arugula and slices of parmigiano-reggiano cheese). If that wasn’t enough, we ordered the carciofi fritti (fried artichokes)—something that is very particular to Rome and to the Jewish ghetto. For dessert, we had a Torta di cioccolato con panna (chocolate tort served with whipped cream) and Carpaccio di ananas ed arancia (thinly slices of pineapple and orange).

We will definitely be returning to the National Museum of Rome at the Palazzo Massimo and Pierluigi has been officially added to our list of favorite Roman restaurants not to be missed.

Ciao e a presto,

Mark

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Ah, Roma~

I returned late—very late—Sunday night from Rome, Italy, and there is so much to talk about.

This was my seventh visit to Roma and every time I go I am reminded of my first trip there in Sept of 2001 with Richard and our mothers. Roma was our final destination and, considering that we were in Firenze (Florence) on 9/11, our arrival in Roma 3 days later proved to be a comforting place until we finished our trip and could fly home.

When we go to Roma now, Richard and I stay in an apartment just north of the Vatican (check out the entry on Oct 18 for info on the apartment), but on our first trip we decided to stay in a B&B—actually, a convent (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0809138484/ref=ox_ya_oh_product ) just around the corner of a tiny alley from the Piazza Navona. Staying at the convent was more about inexpensive, affordable, and clean lodging than it was about a religious experience. The nuns were fantastic and they certainly made us feel welcome, safe, and secure at a time when we felt so disconnected from our home and country.

This year, after checking into our apartment and heading out into Roma to explore the city that we love, Richard and I found ourselves bent over laughing in the Piazza Navona. Now, it may have been due to the fact that we had been awake for about 24 hours by that point, but I think it was truly more about a memory of our time in the convent with our mothers and with one nun in particular—Sister Ada (pronounced “ah-dah”).

Sister Ada was a cheerful, older nun, in her 70s, who always greeted us with a warm smile and a caring nod of her head. The convent was always bustling with nuns and other guests, but over the course of our three-day stay we bumped into her the most.

Staying at a convent can be a challenge. There is a nightly curfew and the doors are promptly closed and locked—and not with a simple key, but with a large Frankenstein castle bar that swings down and fits into large steel brackets on the interior side of the door. A large mob carrying torches and using a large tree truck for a battering ram would have an almost impossible feat ahead of them in trying to get in. In actuality, when the clock struck 11:30 p.m. and the large 14-foot-tall doors were closed, the bar lowered and secured, and the large skeleton key inserted and turned in the lock, it felt more like we were being locked in rather than being protected from any outside harm. The rules were strict: if you weren’t back inside by 11:30 p.m. you would locked out of the convent until the doors were opened at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. Period. No exceptions.

Well, the dungeon-like security of the convent was comforting, but it did pose a problem. We had a 6:45 a.m. flight on the morning of our departure, which means that I scheduled a car service to pick us up at 3:30 a.m.—in front of the convent. Are you ahead of me yet? We were going to need to be sprung from the nunnery during the lockdown hours. I didn’t really think of this when we checked in on that Friday, but on that Saturday I woke up in a panic trying to figure out how we were going to be able to get out to meet the driver early Monday morning.

After breakfast, I approached the sister who was working the reception desk and explained to her our need to get out Monday morning and my concern about it how to make it work. She assured me that all we had to do was to “…come downstairs early Monday morning and call for Sister Ada and “BOOM!” she will appear.” We all jumped a little when this sister said, “BOOM!” She was rather forceful in her tone and she made a large sweeping gesture with her hand, as if Sister Ada would spring up from some secret trap door concealed in the floor.

“Really, all we have to do is say is Sister Ada…” I started to say, but before I could complete the sentence—“BOOM!” this nun replied, again sweeping her hand up in the air—more like pulling a rabbit out of a hat than the trap door her gesture implied the first time. We all laughed, but she shook her finger at us in complete confidence.

Over the next two days, whenever we passed this nun in the hallway I would say, “Sister Ada.” “BOOM!” and a swing of the arm would be her enthusiastic response. Again, we laughed and her finger wagged.

That weekend in Roma with our mothers was truly special, but in the back of our minds loomed the insecurity of being on one of the first regularly scheduled flights back to the states after 9/11—and the insecurity of being let out of the convent Monday morning.

On that Monday morning, the four of us only had three hours of sleep before we woke up, showered, dressed, and quietly hauled our suitcases down two flights of stairs and into the foyer, stopping at the reception desk. All the while feeling like prisoners trying to make a secret escape. A convent is a solemn and somewhat serious place during the course of the day, but at 3:15 a.m. it is an absolutely silent and desolate building. It was now time to conjure up Sister Ada.

We all looked at each other, blurry-eyed and laden with luggage, before I took a deep breath and rather sheepishly said, “Sister Ada?”

Silence.

There was no “BOOM!”

“Sister Ada?” I said, louder this time but still not at full voice.

Silence.

“Well, damn…where’s the BOOM?” Richard’s mother said in her Southern accent. Of course, that made us all burst out laughing, and immediately we hushed each other, covered our mouths, and tried to regain composure.

Silence.

Panic now set in. It was almost 3:30 a.m., the Frankenstein bar was down, and there was no Sister Ada. We each started looking for doors and began tapping on them and saying, “Sister Ada?”

“Okay, seriously, where’s the boom?!”

She was not behind the door to the hallway linen closest, nor in the chapel, or behind the several other doors that opened onto the foyer. We started branching out farther down the hallways and “Sister Ada” was no longer a polite question whispered into the sleeping convent air. We were desperate and needed out.

“SISTER ADA!”

“Si, si, si. Un momento,” and from behind a door down a long dark hallway appeared our Sister Ada—wearing her habit on her head and a floor-length dressing robe. She greeted us with her usual smile, turned the key, raised the bar, and swung wide the large front door, revealing our waiting car running at the base of the convent’s front steps.

"Arrivederci. Buon viaggio!" And with that, Sister Ada waved us off and closed the door.

On this morning, eight years later, as we walked through the Piazza Navona, we saw the alley leading to the convent, and at the same moment Richard and I turned to each other and said, “Sister Ada…BOOM!…Where the hell is she?” And laughed.

I love Roma!

**The attached photo is from a very famous shop in the Testaccio neighborhood of Roma. Volpetti (www.volpetti.com ) is an amazing place filled with cured meats, salami, cheese, wine, and a selection of freshly fried vegetables including zucchini blossoms. One of the men working there noticed us drooling over some of the many prosciutto on the shelves and quickly sliced off tiny pieces of one from Spain and another from Parma for us to taste. He moved on to giving us samples of several cheeses and dried figs. He drizzled the most exquisitely sweet and tangy balsamic vinegar over a little chunk of freshly broken off Parmigiano-Reggiano that he placed on a small slice of bread. We were hooked! We bought a bottle of the vinegar, some slices of pizza, and a small bag of the assorted fried vegetables. He was a smart salesman and we loved every bite.

Buonissimo~

Have I said yet how much I love Roma and the Italians?!

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

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When in Rome...

In a little more than a week, we will be in Rome and, although there are many reasons to be excited about going to Rome, the one thing that I look forward to the most is EATING in Rome. For me, the excitement of eating in Rome is more than the meal itself. It is the hunt for a ristorante--restaurant--tucked out of the way enough that we end up being the only Americans in the place.

I am not exactly sure why I enjoy that feeling, maybe it is the notion of being secluded by one's own language (although it seems that just about everyone in Rome speaks English). If we find a restaurant where the host or proprietress does not speak English, then I really feel like we have discovered a hidden treasure. It forces me to use my Italian--infantile as it is--and it also adds to the "flavor" of being in a foreign land and enjoying the local cuisine.

Here are some of our favorite ristoranti in Rome. Ristoranti so cherished that just by mentioning their names I grin wide--and salivate. Each of these ristoranti has a completely unique feel, some are more upscale (true ristorante), while others are more working class (trattoria) and one is a wine bar (enoteca). We have favorite dishes at some of these ristoranti and I will try to mention the dishes we look forward to eating there. These establishments don't have websites, but I have no doubt you can hunt online and find reviews and more information.

Here's the list:

Trattoria da Settimio all'Arancio
Via dell'Arancio, 50
*wonderful fresh gnocchi in a basil cream sauce.

La Carbonara
Piazza Campo dei Fiori, 23
*the photo above is of their antipasti buffet as you first walk into the restaurant. It is a definite must have.

Hosteria Cannavota
Piazza San Giovani in Laterno, 20
*Enjoyed a plate of wonderfully spicy linguine with langoustine.

Enoteca Corsi
Via del Gesu'
*a wonderful place in the neighborhood surrounding the Pantheon to stop and enjoy a great glass of wine and some simple family dishes.

Osertia dell'Angelo
Via G. Bettola, 24
*north of the Vatican and tucked away in the Prati neighborhood is this rustic gem of a place. It is very old, rather rundown, and very good. I have never enjoyed rabbit more than at this restaurant. The entire meal was simple and truly amazing. I wonder whose nonna they have chained to the stove in the kitchen. It was that good.

Ristorante Monserrato
Via di Monserrato, 96
*Simple but well-appointed, their food is very good, but the reason we love it so much is for their sgroppino--a drink made with prosecco, vodka, and lemon gelato. Wow!

Siciliainbocca
Via Emilio Faa' di Bruno, 26   www.siciliainboccaweb.com
*This trattoria is tucked deep into the Prati neighborhood. They specialize in seafood--they are a Sicilian trattoria after all. I had the most sublime cold seafood salad of baby octopus, squid, and scallops in a tangy lime vinegrette. A+

Buonissimi!

Mark

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