When in Rome
When in Rome, do as the Romans do is an excellent proverb that is useful anywhere in the world except in Rome. Anyone visiting the Eternal City is determined to live by it during their stay and will invariably go home utterly defeated. Not that they don’t try hard enough. Being treated like a local is considered a badge of honor for tourists in Rome, and it becomes their white whale obsession to have it bestowed upon them.
One popular strategy to achieve this goal is imitation (which is exactly what the proverb commands you to do), but of this only failure can come. The first-time visitor may do a great amount of research into the customs of eating and drinking in Rome, learning some rudimentary restaurant Italian and memorizing the names of traditional Italian dishes to be able to order a meal with confidence. The attempt will not be appreciated. You will never succeed in doing as the Romans do because there are too many don’ts in their food and drink culture for you to remember. And it is relentless — one little passo falso and you’re done for. We’re not saying that you will be dragged to the Colosseum and fed to the lions if you order a cappuccino after lunchtime, but it is a scandal.
It requires nerves of steel for the uninitiated to eat at one of those no-nonsense trattorias loved by locals and frequented by tourists seeking an authentic eating experience. You will find more authenticity than you bargained for during lunch at Trattoria Giuseppe. It’s a family establishment and thoroughly traditional with checkered table cloths, wicker bottle candlesticks, and brusque service. Exactly the kind of tiny restaurant for which tourist guides advise you to book in advance or come early. We had done neither when we showed up at Giuseppe’s, but we were lucky enough to get a table (come to think of it, we never heard of anyone who couldn’t get a table at a Roman trattoria without reservation).
The clientele at Giuseppe’s today is predominantly local, but two small groups of tourists, each consisting of three individuals, arrive within minutes of each other: Nearest to us sit two ladies in their late sixties, cooling themselves with battery operated mini fans, and a gentleman with a painful-looking sunset glow on the crown of his head. Today’s special is communicated to them in a rapid fire of words quite foreign to their hapless ears by a burly waiter. Having at this point given up completely, the gentleman draws a square in the air with his index fingers and says: “Menu?” At this, the burly waiter throws his hands to the heavens and goes away. Returning a few minutes later with a tray of food, he tosses them three frayed menus in passing as he goes to serve rigatoni and boisterous fun to another table.
“Well, I don’t understand a damn word of this,” says the gentleman after close scrutiny of the menu, his face glowing with something besides sunburn.
From a corner table three frightened-looking American women are following everything in mute astonishment. One of them is so terrified that she makes a most hideous grimace, as seen in someone about to receive a blow to the face. They are uncomfortable and regret coming here, but being trapped in the corner they dare not flee. As the burly and boisterous waiter makes his way around the tables, the three young women look like prisoners awaiting their executioner.
“We all want carbonara,” says the terrified one to the waiter, hoping it will be a swift process.
The waiter demands to know what the ladies will drink.
“Acqua,” she croaks.
“Con gas?” he says, mercilessly.
“Oh, no! No gas, no gas,” she says in shock and dismay, letting out a nervous chuckle when the waiter has left.
The food is great, though, and we guarantee that Giuseppe’s will disappoint no one. But many a tourist will disappoint Giuseppe’s. Predictably, the sunburnt gentleman undertips the burly and boisterous waiter (perhaps feeling that his service had gone beneath and behind rather than above and beyond his expectations). This leads to the equally predictable result that he and his lady companions must suffer an ignominious exit from the restaurant accompanied by the tambourine-like jingle of their pitiful tip as the waiter shakes his hand rhythmically, like an instrument of mockery.
What, then, can a person do when in Rome? The rarely appreciated answer is: nothing, really. It may seem like an ideal solution to hitch yourself onto someone you know who possesses an extensive knowledge of the city, but this can’t be recommended either, when in Rome. It might save you from embarrassments, but your host, conscious of being the genius that has cracked all the codes of the city’s culinary culture, will guide you around the countless pitfalls with a somberness that will make your joy wither in a day. Even a coffee break turns into a lecture.
“Don’t,” said our guide darkly, holding our gaze for a long time, “don’t order a double espresso.”
We took this stern lesson from our friend the art historian. He had studied and worked in Rome for a full decade and was finally entitled to call himself someone who considers himself a Roman. The Espressogate incident requires some explanation: First of all, it is not that we wanted even a single espresso, but it was after 11 a.m., so we had no choice. It was not long, however, before our friend had us thoroughly convinced that we liked to drink straight up espresso (a conviction that crumbled like a biscotti as soon as we were at home and happily reunited with our milk frother). The key, we learned, is to be casual about your espresso: Order a single shot at the bar, drink it in two sips while standing, and leave as soon as you’re done (and woe to you if you dare linger).
“Mmm…so aromatic,” we said, circling the demitasse cup under our nose and bracing ourself for a bomb of bitterness. Our friend looked skeptical. He knew our love of “stupid” and oversized coffee drinks, always making derogatory remarks like: “How’s your dinner?” or “Enjoying your soup?” We assured him that although we had never been fond of espresso, it was a different and fully enjoyable experience here.
From the outset we had been more than happy to let our friend take the lead and guide us to ancient Rome’s best kept secrets, edible and non-edible alike. At first, he insisted that since our time in the Eternal City was short, we should see it on our own terms, but he changed his mind later that afternoon when we picked the wrong place and time for lunch. We thought the mâitre d’ had something of a nerve when he demonstratively checked the time on his watch when we asked for a table, and at this provocative gesture our friend the art historian responded by firing back a look of fierce disdain — at us, not the mâitre d’. Not taking this setback to his cultural credit score in a remarkably good grace, he sulkily ate his saltimbocca alla Romana and couldn’t get out of there soon enough.
As you can guess, our Rome vacation was not a relaxed affair. We did enjoy the great benefit of having the expert knowledge of our friend the art historian as he guided us through the inexhaustible treasure trove of wonders that make up the city of Rome. We marveled at his command of the Italian language and effortless navigation of the city’s intricate streets. His passion when talking about art and architecture filled us with light, and his lengthier lectures on restaurant etiquette extinguished it.
On our last day in Rome, we invited our friend the art historian out for a farewell dinner. Also wanting to extend our gratitude towards the Roman waiter, we emptied our wallet, gorged with coins the value of which we had still not familiarized ourself with, onto the bar desk and started counting out the euro cents. The art historian could barely suppress a little scream.
