Stories From Italy, Vol. 2 — Part II
Eating in Italy is My Favorite Thing
“Eating in Italy is My Favorite Thing”
The following post, with apologies to Aziz Ansari, is named for one of our classmates’ favorite homage to the aforementioned actor’s show, “Master of None.” In season two, his character briefly goes abroad during a stagnant stage of his life to learn how to cook Italian food. Our equally extroverted classmate, M.E., cheers’ed and toasted and celebrated us along at every epicurean occasion.
And for good reason! What part of any culture is more essential than food? To be honest, food is the principal reason for 85% of my interactions with local city residents (and museums, maybe 10%). This food blog is a hat-tip to Dave Blosser, without whom I probably would not have remembered to take quite so many pictures of my meals! I would like to caution Dave, my fellow classmates, and anyone else reading this, to do so only on a full stomach. This entry made me very hungry to type!
The Mercato Centrale is best described as the only epicurean tourist destination that qualifies as “fast food.”
The food is, indeed, fast (pre-cooked pasta quickly tossed one of a couple ready sauces, and served), it is plated on fancy-looking paper plates, and the restaurants line the boundary of the build like a food court. Well, it is a food court.
But it is also a place to try nearly every type of Tuscan or Florentine specialties, like trippa and lampredotto. The former is, as you might guess, tripe. The latter is — well, you know how cows have four stomachs? Lampredotto is the fourth such stomach, chopped up and often served in a panino. The first time I went, I checked both those boxes off my list. Pictured above is sangiovese wine and rigatoni bolognese — something a little more to my palate!
To the left is an obligatory gelato picture, yes. But it is especially noteworthy in that Melissa, a friend in class, told me about a dairy-free gelato place she found, and one day walking around the city I recognized the place she had recommended to me, and obliged myself to try it out!
I seem to be lactose intolerant (though cheese is, thankfully, perfectly fine). I rarely eat ice cream at home, so I don’t always remember this rather (ahem) pressing fact. On the plane ride over they gave out small servings of vanilla ice cream, which duly provided me the necessary reminder of my dietary restrictions, as my gastrointestinal system began to do jumping jacks from somewhere over the Atlantic, through two train rides, and along a long walk to my apartment in Florence.
That was reminder enough. This gelato pictured above would be the only time I got a non-sorbet (fruit) flavor on the trip. It was gelato crema e amarena (cream and cherries, I think). Whatever they used instead of milk worked… but… to be honest, it really wasn’t the same.
Grocery shopping was quietly one of my favorite things about my summer stay in Florence. I got some variety of the sort of food pictured above, each time.
- Bread (olive loaf, tomato loaf)
- Meat (bresaola, prosciutto, soppressata, insalata di mare — seafood salad?)
- Cheese (peccorino, treccione)
- Fruit (peaches, plums)
- Fruit juice (pear, pomegranate, blood-orange — I mean, red-orange)
- Wine (usually something heavy in sangiovese)
- Beer (only the fanciest Peroni on the shelf — think “Budweiser Select”)
I tried to avoid buying the sort of things I’d regularly buy back home. And their grocery mini-marts have their own conventions that I wasn’t sure about, so I stayed away from those (for example, customers weigh and label their own produce. And if that doesn’t sound daunting, just remember that Europeans use kilograms!).
Some other interesting notes — customers do their own bagging. And bags cost 10c, so I reused the same one each time, or used my backpack. I eventually remembered to say “ho una busta” — I have a bag. I somehow always managed to struggle to count out change correctly, however, which was dumb of me because their system of dollars and cents is basically the same as ours. Also — grocery stores are the only place where you get 1- or 2-cent coins, because costs are usually pretty exact. Every single other place is sensible enough to round to the nearest 20 or 50 cents at least, and usually to the nearest dollar (including tax).
Some fun exchanges were when I asked in Italian if I needed to cook the insalata di mare (I didn’t — sono pronti — they are ready). Feeling like a local… speaking Italian at a grocery store! And this one time, a guy asked me to get a Peroni for him that he couldn’t reach. I said, “sono basso!” — I’m short! He shrugged and gestured at himself as if to say, “yes, but I’m shorter.” He pointed out a milk crate over on the floor, so I got it and stood on it and got a beer from the back of the top shelf. That was all that he bought. I got the impression he did that often.
The next picture and the one below are two of my favorite stories. Pictured here is after lunch at Caffe Curatone, where I ordered a penne arrabbiata — which very loosely translates to “angry pasta” because the sauce is spicy. The waitstaff were super cool, so I made a joke in another language (always a good plan…) about how the penne are angry. They didn’t get it, so I tried showing them what google translate brought up, and they told me some better synonyms.
So, kind of like how we might call someone saucy or spicy… it doesn’t actually mean “angry.” They suggested, “incensata,” as in “incensed” or “furious”. From then on out, the two waiting on me would ask how I liked the penne incensate… the “enraged noodles”! I’m glad they got a kick out of it and that I wasn’t just wasting their time.
Since they were so cool I agreed when they suggested an espresso after. The waitress then brought me a desert to go with the coffee, and tried to explain to me how it was made, between her broken English, my limited understanding of Italian, and the universally accepted language of Pointing at Things. She told me to wait and then brought back another dessert to help explain the different types of creme they use in their pastries. For a country that doesn’t work for tips (they have table/cover charge instead), I thought it was pretty cool for them to bring out free food. So, I left a tip. I’m an American… it’s okay!
I went back to this place a couple weeks later, the day before I left. It turns out the two who were waiting on me last time were about to leave their shift, which was too bad. But as she was leaving, the gal recognized me and called out, “Ciao, bello!” — “Hey, handsome!”. Of course it was the only ciao bello I got on the trip. More important was how she was adorable and kind to me. That salutation was worth a hundred free pastries.
This other favorite memory was a place called La Prosciutteria. I went here on a rather rough first weekend. The culture shock was coming to a head, and I felt lost.
I had made some missteps, and not felt wholly welcome at times (see previous post). I was basically feeling that I should just go take pictures at the Uffizi and of David and then go home.
And… at first, this place had me feeling exactly like a transient tourist. To order here a sandwich here, you pick a meat, a cheese, and then the other toppings.
The guy behind the counter asked if I wanted ham, salami, or sausage. I was looking at the menu and said “prosciutto,” and he goes, “ham, okay. And cheese?”
I asked, “Quali formaggi hanno?” — what cheeses do you have? He answered in English, so, I ordered in English. And next, I didn’t have a clue how to say “sun-dried tomatoes” in Italian, so I swallowed my pride and ordered toppings like a tourist.
I’d just about resigned myself to the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing, so I should stop trying. I don’t really think that is in my nature, though. While eating, I saw that the Vernaccia Trebbiano wine I ordered was “made here.” I knew how to say the phrase, “home-made.” So I asked, “Questo vino e fatto a casa?” He looked uncertain, so I apologized for speaking poorly. But he got it, and said in English that they don’t make it here (of course… I should’ve known — the shop is small), but that they are from Tuscany, before adding, “dalle regione.” — from the region.
I finished the sandwich, asked where I should pay up, and headed out. On my way past the counter the guy asked, “How was it?”
I replied, “C’era molto bene!” — it was very good! I’d just learned about the imperfect tense from my Korean roommate that week. Perhaps I should’ve used the present perfect, but regardless, I was excited to be able to answer his question.
He smiled and raised his hands, saying, “bravissimo parlato!” — most excellently spoken!
It had only been one week. And I had had my missteps living in a new place. But, for a moment, I felt like I really was getting the hang of things.
Above, left: pasta carbonara. Usually a spaghetti-sized pasta, and eggs and bacon. It was really good, but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Probably only got it once.
Center: pappardelle al cinghiale. This is one of my favorite dishes, and this one in particularly was wonderful. The wide pappardelle noodles are really good with the wild boar meat. This restaurant’s server was a fun host, too. He went along with me using Italian, but knew I needed English, too.
At the end of the meal, he asked, “How was the meal?”
I replied, “Perfetto!” — perfect!
Then he smiles wide and goes, “Se è perfetto per te, è perfetto per me!” — if it’s perfect for you, that is perfect for me! I thought that was just the most fun way for a server to be!
Above, right: lasagna al forno. It seems lasagna is always served in those ceramic bowls, cooked in the oven. No big story about the lasagna. I had it a couple times, and it never really seemed that much better than anything we’ve made at home or I’ve had in the states.
Back at the Mercato Centrale — I had been to the second floor several times, but never the first floor, which closes at 2pm. This day, I headed out early enough to get there by lunch, and texted my classmates to see if anyone would be in the area for lunch when I got there. Mary Elisabeth, who lives just a couple blocks away, said she was on her way.
We found each other and then found a counter that had a wide variety of pasta. I asked a busboy, “posso sedersi?” — can one sit here? and he gestured yes. I have to say, I have no idea where I learned that. I was floored that it worked, and I just don’t even remember learning it! (ed. — puo sedersi, or posso sedermi, would have been more correct).
The woman behind me said some things in Italian after I ordered. I sort of got it, but another customer translated for me, “she is finishing off the tray, so you get extra pasta.” Okay, that is awesome!
We got bruschetta as well. And, Coke.
I pretty much never drink soda in the U.S. And yeah, I’d heard the rumor that Coke is better in Europe (because it is made with natural sugar, and not high-fructose corn syrup). Well, I’d forgotten all about that, but I kept ordering Coke because it was delicious with everything I wasn’t drinking wine with.
On the plane ride home, I ordered a Coke out of (recent) habit. After taking a sip, I wondered why I asked for soda. Then realized, this didn’t taste like the Coke I was recently used to. I’m sure of it — Coke in Europe is different, and definitely better.
Pictured above is gelato. More importantly, pictured above is “pesca” flavored gelato, and not “pesce” flavored gelato. The guy working behind the counter gave me quite the surprised expression, and then a series of nautical-themed gestures given that I’d asked for a gelato with “fish” flavor. I quickly realized his swimming-through-water hand gestures and smile meant that I had asked for the wrong type of ice cream. I pointed directly at the peach ice cream and he goes, “PESca… non PESHe — PESca!”
Considering the alternative, it was absolutely delicious. As delicious of a trip for desert as it was hilarious.
So, I did the tourist thing in Siena multiple times, sitting on my phone in a plaza looking for food reviews on Trip Advisor. This place was top five out of a couple hundred, and it is one of the cheapest you’ll find. I ended up coming back here two more times. The last time, the guy started talking Spanish to me(!?). He did think I looked kind of Spanish… but mostly, it was because I kept saying “bueno” instead of “buono”. This happened especially towards the end of the trip. Language exhaustion, maybe.
Most of the quality places I found in Siena were quick stops. I also got a cold sandwich (after a month of asking, “fa caldo” — make it hot, literally) again, out of exhaustion from trying, I suppose I just forgot. Probably more worried about making my bus back to Rome, having never taken an inter-city bus in Italy before.
I almost ate at a Michelin-recommended place that Dave had also gone to… but they were reservation-only. Just as well, because after being turned down there, I wandered back to the city square in time to be treated to a festive, colorful, and wholly unexpected parade of residents of the contrade della torre. It was a deeply moving parade of city pride (see next post), and one of the most beautiful cultural aspects of the trip.
Above is my last night in Siena. Apparently I wasn’t the only one to order the bruschette as an appetizer at La Finestra that night (“The Window” — an outdoor restaurant… who knows). The waiter walked back into the restaurant and I heard the cook yelling, “bruschette, bruschette, bruschette!” Apparently it was a popular order… but for me it was, “oh shoot, my month here is almost over and I’ve had bruschetta maybe once?” I later heard, “penne, penne, penne!” so maybe they just have a short menu, or maybe they have popular menu items!
Here was the last day of vacation so I figured it was okay to spring for a fancy restaurant. The waiter recommended anything that was seafood, since it was a staple of the local Fiumincino culture. I ordered an appetizer of mussels, and an entree of spaghetti with clams. Probably way more shellfish than one person should typically eat, but good god was it delicious.
The next morning was early to the airport, with one last apple danish and espresso at a place by my departure gate. I got there early, followed all the rules, and was polite and answered all their questions. I still won the “single male traveling to the United States” award, though, which came with a complementary bag search and extensive pat down.
It was good to get back to the United States. I mean, it was an absolutely unforgettable, fun, challenging, beautiful, and (above all) delicious trip. But one of the things people miss most about whatever place they call home is always the food.
I chose this spot so I could continue people-watching, as I was accustomed. It was different, though. Even in an international airport, it was remarkable how much more deliberately people stuck to walking on the right and getting out of each other’s way. And the time two people did bump into each other, it was a big thing! Cultural norms are everywhere!
In general, people just looked more stressed, impatient, and racked with a sense of obligation (for better or worse). Sure, it’s an airport. But it was different, even still, from the Leonardo da Vinci Airport at Fiumincino.
It was interesting to watch people walk by as I sat and ate. And it was nice to sit down with a beer and fries again. It really was. But did I ever miss the outdoor restaurant seating, the Mediterranean weather, the casual atmosphere, and the delightful Italian culture and cuisine.
