Rome – I went to see all my old friends here in Rome the other day: Stefano and Alessandro, the cheese brothers; the pasta girls; and, of course, the bread queen and the olive goddess.
I lived in Rome from 2001 to 2003 and every morning took a stroll to the open- air market two blocks from my apartment near the Vatican Museum. It was never a chore.
Mercato Trionfale represented a daily reminder of why most Romans, despite smoking more than many factories in New Jersey, are healthier and look better than Americans. The market, spread out over a one-block area, was filled with the freshest food in the world. About the only item pre-packaged was toilet paper.
Preservatives do not exist here. On one hand, bread here has a shelf life of only a few hours. On the other hand, it has more flavor and less fat than the American loaves of bread, which have the shelf life of Ivory soap.
(Language tip: Be careful when you ask about preservatives in the market. The Italian word for preservatives is conservanti. Preservativi is the Italian word for prophylactics. On my first visit to the market, a merchant was not happy when I accidentally asked if she had any condoms in her oranges.)
This joyous art of market shopping isn’t exclusive to locals.
Tourists can indulge, too. If you’re ever in Rome, if you want off a path that has been beaten for more than 2,000 years, do what I did on my recent visit before the Tour de France:
Gather food at the market and go on a picnic. It may be the best meal you’ll have in a city where I never had a bad one in a year and a half.
My day started when I walked from my hotel through my old ‘hood, past the Vatican Museum where the line at 10 a.m. stretched halfway to Milan. I walked past my old apartment building, where the giant palm tree still stood majestically in the courtyard.
Retracing old steps, I stopped at Le Scalette, my neighborhood cafe, where I had the world’s best cappuccino next to six American tourists who had just returned from my market.
“Oh, the fresh produce, cheeses and meats! You just don’t see that in the States,” said one woman.
On that note, I walked the two blocks, past Stefano in his newspaper stand and Bruno in his butcher shop, and saw the market …
… was in rubble!
A giant fence ringed what was once my gastronomical paradise. Funny, I didn’t recall reading about an earthquake hitting Rome.
A woman in a nearby cafe told me to go to the end of the block, and when I did I heard, “Hey, Meester John!” It was Stefano and Alessandro, the cheese brothers, manning their stall. They told me that last August the city moved every stall to Via Andrea Doria, the street bordering the market’s north end, while they build a multistory market on the same site, complete with parking.
At least, that’s what I think they told me. With my Italian comprehension skills, they could very well have said, “May your girlfriend dump you for a gondola pilot.”
Openly relieved, I went about my food gathering. The cheese brothers cut off a big chunk of peccorino di norcia, a tangy golden cheese from nearby Umbria. They cut a dozen slices of fresh, lean Genoa salami, all for 3.96 euro (about $4.75).
I walked along Andrea Doria, and at the bread stall, I saw piles of bread in every shape and degree of softness, mixed with cakes and tarts stuffed with purple, red and orange fillings. The bread queen, her face, hair and makeup still as perfect as a runway model’s despite the oppressive humidity, gave me two panne latte, light, soft buns perfect for sandwiches. Cost: 90 cents.
Fruit and vegetable stands were everywhere. The bright reds of cherries, yellows of peaches, greens of pears and peppers of every color in the rainbow filled stall after stall. I bought a big bag of cherries and two peaches for $1.35.
I needed olives, but alas, my olive goddess, the one I had a weird crush on, wasn’t there. Instead, I bought a sack full of seven different olives from her husband, who eyed me warily in that sixth sense only Italian men have.
With a bottle of Montepulciano, a white table wine from Frascati, I took a bus near the Vatican up Gianicolo Hill, one of the seven hills of Rome. I jumped off near Villa Doria Pamphili, one of Rome’s many underrated parks.
While most tourists go to Villa Borghese, the park surrounding the Borghese Museum, I go where the Romans go.
Doria Pamphili is the city’s biggest park and is lined with jogging paths and grassy fields with palm trees amidst the dense foliage. I plopped down in the shade of a 20-foot fern facing the 17th-century Pamphili Palace and dug in.
I saw the occasional jogger and some women strolling. That was about it. It was just me, my La Gazzetta dello Sport newspaper and the best salami and cheese sandwich, fruit and wine you’ll ever have. Total cost, including bus fare: About $14.
Afterward, I digested by walking down Gianicolo Hill and stopping at Piazza di Garibaldi, where I looked down at a panorama of my glorious former city.
OK, I did it alone. Sure, I need a life. But for one glorious afternoon, I relived the beautiful, healthy life I once had.
Staff writer John Henderson is writing a journal as he eats his way through Europe. He’s now covering the Tour de France. He can be reached at 303-820-1299 or jhenderson@denverpost.com.
