three meals: 2. finish!

Mr. T and I put Sora Margherita off until late in the week, as research led us to rumors of fresh handmade gnocchi each and every Thursday.  Sora Margherita, like Trattoria der Pallaro, can be found smack dab in the center of the Jewish Ghetto.

In both instances I found it incredibly hard to imagine the cyclical persecution of its people amidst Rome’s high style, beautiful stonework, and dense tourists.  Somehow doing this in Berlin is trivial, thanks in part to the giant cranes being a permanent reminder / fixture of the fractured skyline.

We passed right by the bright red curtain-as-door several times trying to find the address, but once we walked through we descended into this long, small restaurant just below street level.

Our waitress gave us our menus and rattled off half a dozen languages she could deal with us in.  She only let us look at them for a second before offering up “or let me take care of you”.  Gnocchi was our only demand - we relaxed back in our seats, wondering what the meal would bring.

Sharing a table with us was a Californian woman and her daughter, both bug-eyed and awe-struck by the food they were eating.  This was their first time out of the US, and it showed.  Their amplified shrieks of OH MY GOD DID YOU TASTE THIS?! were cute at first but quickly turned into a soundtrack of disingenuous appreciation, a complete lack of range from which to measure what they were experiencing.  It was almost as if this trip served as catharsis of a lifetime spent in numbness.

Not to say the food wasn’t good – it was damn fine food that came in far more aggressive portions than Mama subjected us to.  Our waitress eyed each of our near-empty plates with suspicion, barking FINISH! dare we leave remnants.  This was ramped up during the pasta course where she took my fork, scooped the final bits, and fed it to me!  Hilariously unforgettable.

What destroyed us here were the starches, plain and simple.  The gnocchi was added as an additional course to a huge lunch, and what appeared from a distance to be palate-cleansing pineapple turned out to be gut-bomb potatoes.  We both rolled out of there drunk on calories.

(deep-fried artichoke, out of season but a really great texture)

(amazing eggplant mozzarella goodness)

(hand-fluffed gnocchi worth waiting for)

(pasta after gnocchi is not a good idea)

(fried chicken chunks)

(destroyer of our worlds)

three meals: 1. mama

What stands clearest in my mind from my visit to Italy were three distinct meals.  These meals had nothing in common, except that I had little or no choice in any of them.

The most satisfying of the lot had to have been in Rome at Trattoria der Pallaro.  There is no menu here, you sit and are served a carafe of the house wine and whatever Mama Paola is cooking up.  Everything we ate from the 10 [!!!] plates of food was simple, fresh, and hearty.

One of the dishes I’ll never forget was a perfectly cooked pasta topped with two different sauces.  The bits of mystery scattered through turned out to be crunchy fatty nuggets of pure porky bliss.  I’ve had some splendid bacon in my day but these wee nubs were taste and textural perfection.

A few times that evening Mama would appear tableside to make sure everyone was enjoying the food.  The regulars got extra love.

My only regret from this trip is that we didn’t go back.  Maybe a return visit would have gotten us a hug, too.

(pictures not mine, they were taken by my Italian companion Mr. T)

italy.

Rome

Pacentro

basic rights.

There are a growing number of documentaries showing just how much of the American water supply is being privatized and bottled, moved just out of our reach behind storefront displays.  Water.  The stuff we’re made of.  It’s sickening to imagine that day where the poor can’t afford this most basic requirement.

These films have been eye-opening and saddening, but being in Italy brings my anger to a whole new level.  Fountains can be found just about everywhere, and not the kind that you put the kids in front of for a photograph.  Clean, potable water available twenty-four hours a day.  An equal opportunity resource providing a pit-stop for scooters, the wealthy, dogs, the homeless, gardeners, overcharged tourists, squatters, everyone.  I’ve never been to a country that places something so simple yet so necessary at the feet of its people.

The arguments over the rights of American citizens will probably continue forever.  Healthcare, assistance for the poor, help for the unfortunate, on and on and on.  Sharing my opinion on the rest of it is just another internet person bitching into the void.

But water?  Really?

monoculture.

Greece and Italy both share what I consider a big problem – an incredibly strong aspiration towards a very specific type of physical beauty.

While this impossible standard surely moves billions in beauty products and drives fashion forward, it comes with a downright intolerance to those without a sense of style or symmetry for a face.  It’s one giant sexual lottery, and the feeling like your number was picked at birth downright pisses me off.

I’ve seen nothing but “beautiful” women during my time in Rome and Athens, sadly these similarities smear together into a giant lapse of detail.  One of the best characters I’ve come across was a stumbling guy who looked a hell of a lot like Mick Jagger on a train leaving Rome – the sole oddity in a sea of perfection.  We weren’t using the same language but we shared a moment of frustration in not being able to remember the faces we’ve passed.

There are no ironic hipsters.  The goths and punks don’t come out, even at night.  Nerd pride is anything but.  I have yet to see a drag queen.

My mind wanders to the old single women of southern Europe – how do you fit into a society that pronounced you dead at age 26?

Religion?  God might be the only one that doesn’t judge you anymore.

Children?  Do Italian men even acknowledge women past their prime?

Wealth?  Perhaps with the right pair of Prada…

Anti-bulimia PSAs, Lady Gaga non-stop, diversity-is-life campaigns, wrinkle creams and tailored seams.  I never thought a region drowning in history could be so trapped in the shallow end of the culture pool.

God bless the punks of London, the goths of Berlin, the hipsters of Williamsburg, the queens of San Francisco, the nerds of Seattle, Swedish metal fans, and the thugs of Atlanta!

parallel universe.

I was born into a world where family was a bit of a front – hugs were still exchanged, dinners were prepared and shared, but everyone tended to drift off back into themselves once the table was cleared and dishes washed.  I blame equal parts dysfunction to the arms-length nature of my Germanic background for this, and while I've always appreciated the lack of interference from my family into my personal life I’ve often felt like there was something very real missing from my experience on this planet.

They say that visitors to Greece are welcomed as family, and I’ve got to admit I’ve never had hospitality that even comes close to that of the past week.  I’d go as far to say that it’s impossible to have a proper Greek experience without visiting the home of a local.  I’m a bit of an odd duck (understatement) but not once did I feel out of place or out of sorts with this conservative-slanted family that previously judged me harshly, back when I was a complete stranger.

Greek food has been the antithesis of what I was raised on and has been that One Final Barrier separating me from the foods of the world. I'm not sure why many Americans shy away from Greek food in general, and honestly I blame cheap black olives and day-old anchovies for our collective hesitation. Still, I'm damn well into my lifespan and have a bit of regret that I haven't been eating Tzatziki on a regular basis. Greek salad? Why we pick slathered-dressing iceberg in lieu of this simple cooling crispy delight is beyond me. The best watermelon and peaches of my life were found just outside of Athens. Whole fish fried in olive oil slathered in a homemade spicy feta dip? Amazing. The meaty-fluffy lasagna-meets-bechamel Pastitsio made by hand? No words. The sights have been splendid but the food might just haunt me forever.

I was fortunate enough to see several types of Greece: the city of Athens, the coastal town of Patras, the beautiful island of Lefkada, and straight up into the mountains overlooking it all.

Greeks admit that even though there are plenty of laws in their country, they never seem to apply to individual citizens.  I love the concept of social governance, taking care of your flock, and logical anarchy.  This is illustrated by one of my favorite moments in Greece:  Our multi-car caravan arrives to a full parking lot in front of a popular oceanside restaurant.  Stuck in a cul-de-sac with nowhere to go, the sassy aunt stops in the middle of the circle and gets out of the car.  Puzzled by this blatant act of illegality, she responds with a shrug and says “I don’t see the problem.  Everyone can get out of their parking spaces.”  Sure enough we arrive back to the car a good two hours later, sans ticket and sans towing.

Currently I’m in Rome until the 19th, then back to Berlin and back to work.