Testaccio - food and contrasts

The first time I visited Testaccio was for a celebration. It was at the end of my first month in Italy, a boiling July. The gathering was held in a fifth floor flat opposite the bell tower of the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice on the Piazza of the same name just metres away fom the famed pizzeria 'Da Remo'. 

I grasped a glass of prosecco and walked out onto the balcony. To my left rose the Aventine hill dominated by the priory of the Knights of Malta and to my right the road stretched out, lined by rows of identical buildings. Down below in a small park some children played watched over by their parents. The bell struck the hour and the flat vibrated. I retreated indoors to where a lively debate was in progress. Where were we going to eat?

If you want a good beer.

Testaccio is the heartland of genuine Roman cuisine. Once know as 'the belly' or ' the slaughterhouse' of Rome and inhabited by 'vaccinari' or butchers, this is where the infamous 'fifth quarter' of Roman cuisine is dished up: the pigs' trotters, brains, genitals and other offal.

The trattorie that dot the grid of streets serve up traditional dishes such as pajata (intestines of milk-fed veal with rigatoni pasta), coda alla vaccinara (oxtail) or tripe in a rich tomato sauce, all of which are appreciated by the diehard fans of this cuisine.

But if offal isn't your thing, there are many other dishes you can try: carciofi alla Romana, abbacchio alla cacciatoria, fiori di zucca, pasta cacio pepe accompanied by a Castelli white or red wine are not to be missed.  

Or you may want to go food shopping. One of Rome's best grocery stores, Volpetti's, is on Via Marmorata. Just peering through the windows is a treat for the eyes whilst a glance inside is an assault on the olfactory senses. Not only does it have an extensive selection of Italian cheese and meat products as well as various pies and savoury pastries but this is also the place to come to for that hard to find slice of Stilton, or, as I did one Christmas, a smelly French vacherin. And just around the corner is Taverna Volpetti where you can sit down for a quick snack. 


 

Piazza Testaccio

Like all of the Roman rione (districts), Testaccio has its own fresh market. For many years, this had been situated on Piazza Testaccio.But in 2012, a new site on Via Galvani was inaugurated and the stalls moved there. Piazza Testaccio underwent a facelift and a fountain of amphorae from beside the Tiber was moved to the centre of the piazza.




Testaccio is  an area which got built around an ancient rubbish tip. In antiquity the area served as a port and cargo would be unloaded on the banks of the Tiber. In the 2nd century AD the state controlled reserves of olive oil were stored on the river banks.

 

Typical colours of this rione

Street art opposite the new market

The remains of broken amphorae, clay vessels (known as testae in Latin) were stacked alongside other detritus. Eventually they formed a hill which covers an area of 20,000 square metres and rises an estimated 35 metres in height. There are said to be the remains of about 53 million amphorae.




Today, Monte Testaccio or Monte dei Cocci is a site of archaeological importance and can only be visited with a guide. At the foot of the hill, in rundown looking shacks and houses are the discos and nightplaces (locali) to which young Romans and a few tourists flock at the weekends.

Next to Monte Testaccio is what remains of the slaughterhouse which gave the area its nickname. The mattatoio was a huge complex of pavilions built over 25,000 square metres. Each pavilion served different butchers and around the slaughterhouse buildings were erected in rows forming the distinctive grid that is Testaccio today.
  
The slaughterhouse closed down in 1975 and the various pavilions were converted into different facilities: a new wing of the Macro museum, the faculty of architecture for the Roma Tre university as well as the 'citta dell'altra economia'.... The various pavilions are still being transformed to date.

The frigorifero (fridge) of the old slaughterhouse.

Nowadays, Testaccio has completed the transition from a working class neighbourhood to a hip middle-class residential one. It is also ensconsed on the tourist route. Foodies are guided around the market and the food shops, some of which are losing their genuinity in the process. Tourists interested in the past can book a guided visit of Monte Testaccio or visit the cemetery where Byron and Shelley are laid.

the post office

Testaccio is where I like to wander through the grid of streets. I can stop off at my favourite shop 'Emporio delle spezie' to stock up on hard to find spices and teas. I may pause to look at the splendid array of cheeses at Volpetti's, but more likely I'll head straight down to the market and get a selection of fresh vegetables, a Sicilian cheese from the Sicilian stall and a snack before walking down past the cemetary and the pyramid. If I have time and if I'm there in the evening, I'll get a beer from 'L'Oasi della Birra' on Piazza Testaccio with a large platter of mixed cheeses and cold cuts.



And at least once every two months I'll go to the large post office, a great slab of Rationalist architecture from the 1930s, to pay the various bills that are the only thing my letter box gets.

 

Versione Originale

This week on 13th October, the 11th edition of Rome's Film Festival opened. Rome doesn't need a film festival but the Mayor in 2005, Walter Veltroni, felt that as Venice, Cannes and Berlin had their own film festivals, it was high-time Rome had one too. He was trying to leave his mark on the city.

 Mr Veltroni's task would have been more appreciated by the Roman tax payers had he turned his attention to the pot-holed streets, crazy-paved pavements and the over-flowing rubbish skips.

All problems which have not been solved by successive mayors either. 

When I came to Rome in 1998, other than the serious worries: would I find a job, what kind of contract would I get;  I was  concerned about whether I would be able to keep up my weekly film going habit. I reasoned that as a big international city Rome would have films showing in original version just as other big cities ( I was thinking Paris and Brussels) did and still do. 

I soon realised that this wasn't the case. There were two cinemas that showed films in original version: the 'Pasquino', in Trastevere which had two screens, and the 'Quirinetta', a converted theatre which had only one projection room. The pickings were slim indeed. I was  reduced to the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Thus I saw 'The Gladiator' in the 'Pasquino's' largest room squeezed into a tight seat, squashed against my neighbour's coat while trying to share the armrest.

 The 'Quirinetta', site of a couple of 'Harry Potter's' and 'Star Wars: The phantom Menace', was more comfortable. The seats were of  the old-fashioned puffed up cushion variety on a wood and metal frame, and the screen was revealed as two old and now frayed burgundy velvet curtains parted. The room was vaulted and there was a slight echo. Once, in its hey-day. circa the fifties it would have been an elegant theatre. 

 In the early 2000s they closed down. The first to go was the 'Pasquino'. In a desperate attempt to buck up numbers the owners had opened a small bar, but had omitted to get a proper license. The bar was closed down by the authorities and shortly afterwards the 'Pasquino' closed forever. In 2015, a protest sit-in on the premises was staged in an attempt to get the cinema re-opened. It failed.

The 'Quirinetta' followed suit soon after. Too much competition from out of town cineplexes and not enough custom were the reasons.

 The situation now appeared desperate for regular followers of versione originale films.

Then hope appeared, a large four screen cinema decided to project films in their original version. This was a cinema with a fully operative sound system, good quality screens and small snack bar attached where one could drink a glass of wine while waiting for a viewing.

 In fact, it was such an important venue, that it was chosen to show case some of the films in Rome's first film festival.

This was the 'Metropolitan' at the end of Via del Corso, slap bang in the center with easy access from the nearby metro station on piazzale Flaminio. Then a smaller cinema stopped projecting in Italian and started to show original films too. This was the 'Nuovo Olimpia', off Via del Corso, near the Chamber of Deputies, and right next to an important bus terminus on Piazza San Silvestro. Not only could we see films in their original English, but in French, German, Turkish, Chinese....

Of course, it couldn't last. The landlord of the 'Metropolitan' hiked up the rent. The cinema closed after petitions and protests failed. The Golden Age of foreign language films was over. The Dark Ages were upon us.

Valliantly, despite threats that it might close the 'Nuovo Olimpia' has soldiered on, and is still open to date. The nearby Piazza San Silvestro has had a massive makeover and is no longer a bus terminus. 

Other cinemas sometimes show a film in original, usually a potentially high-grossing film, look up the 'Barberini' or the 'Lux' in local papers or online at 'Wanted in Rome' or 'Trovacinema'.

The 'Fiamma', near Rome's Central station, Termini. from time to time will show original versions in all of its three rooms. Every now and again something will go wrong and the projection will be interrupted: the picture may be blurred, the sound may be out of synch with the picture... It's always an adventure going to the 'Fiamma'. 

Over time, my appetite for films has declined a combination of little free time and too much of a hassle getting to the cinema. After all, with the rise of DVDs and BluRays, and improved home viewing equipment, staying at home to see a film only six months after its original release is just as fun, and usually more comfortable.

Another possibility is to see the films in their dubbed versions. I remember once complaining to an Italian acquaintance about the dearth of choice in original version film, he exclaimed, "but why don't you see the films in Italian. Italian dubbing artists are the best in the world." I was dubious. he warmed to his theme, "indeed, they are so good their performances are even better than the original."
  

Full as an egg

My flatmate, Sally, was back. The door to the flat slammed shut behind her and she dropped her suitcase in the corridor while fumbling for the key to her bedroom. She was as graceful as an elephant. 

I prepared myself for the imminent onslaught of words that would pour down the moment I asked, “how was Umbria?”

Two hours later she paused to breath. “Let’s go down and get some pizza,” I suggested. 

A ‘Pizza al Taglio’ (pizza by the slice) takeaway had recently opened at the foot of the building. We were eating our way through the various types of pizza. 

Early evening, and the small takeaway was packed. We jostled our way to the head of the mass of people gathered around the display case.  What was today’s selection?

The ubiquitous Pizza Margherita (basil, tomato sauce and mozzarella) nestled close to its pal, the Pizza Bianca. This last was a favourite of harried mothers who, not having had time to prepare a snack for their offspring, would rush in grab a small slice. Other combinations beckoned us: rocket and cherry tomatoes, sausages and broccoli, prawns and ice-berg lettuce, fried zucchini and cheese, pecorino and pepper (cacio pepe), tuna and onions, a never-ending colourful display. It was a feast for the eyes.

To the left of the selection of pizzas was a large tray with suppli (fried rice balls), olive ascolane (meat stuffed and fried in batter olives), baccala (fried cod) and that international favourite, chips. We pointed at what we wanted, debated the size of the slices and headed back to our flat with two large boxes.

The ancient lift creaked and groaned its way up to our floor and our boxes emitted a mouth- watering scent. Once inside we ravenously threw ourselves on our slices. Sally continued her tale of Umbria. I topped up our glasses with a Frascati white wine – I know Romans say only beer should be drunk with pizza but personally I find that a little heavy.

Sally grabbed another slice and talked on. She picked an olive ascolana. Then paused. I looked up, paying attention again. She put down the slice and announced “sono piena come un uovo.” She rubbed her stomach to underline her words. I raised an eyebrow. I was beginning to feel stuffed. 

“I’m full as an egg,” she translated. I nodded. It made sense, after all what could be fuller than an egg with its albumen and yolk? 

So it was Sally who introduced me to the expression. Barely a week later the young man who had told her the expression was sitting opposite me at a table in our local restaurant. She had met him while sketching a street in a quaint Umbrian hillside town. As he polished off his fourth panna cotta in a row, a feat that was making me sweat in sympathy, he pronounced, well-satisfied, “sono pieno come un uovo.”

It has over the years been a useful expression. However, I would like to sound a note of caution when using it, especially for  women. If you say : “sono piena,” your audience may think you are pregnant. 

Though as faux-pas go, it’s not as bad as a friend  who in the early stages of learning Italian, to a table full of Italians, announced, as she sucked on a juicy fig, “Mi piace tanto la figa.”  She thought she had said that she liked figs. The horrified and amused looks of the assembled indicated otherwise. A fig in Italian is masculine and is figo.  As for the other word, I’ll let you look it up.

Roman cats

Bud likes to stalk a pigeon. He does this from inside the flat. The pigeon he stalks is a return visitor, it's acquired a taste for dried cat food. Bud crouches down low as Mr Pigeon pecks at the food in my older cat's bowl on the balcony. The old girl is usually asleep on the balcony. Even when she moves, the pigeon just lazily flutters away. She isn't a menace. 

Bud makes clicking sounds and glares at the pigeon from the safety of the kitchen. It is after all a very big pigeon.

Both Bud and Kitty are of Roman street cat stock. Kitty came to me from the famed cat sanctuary on Largo Argentina in the centre of Rome whereas Bud was abandoned with his siblings in a cardboard box outside a pet shop in the San Lorenzo district of the city. A friend knew I was looking for a kitten and so I got him aged all of six weeks. 

Whenever I visit Roman ruins I always marvel at the cats running about in their magnificent playgrounds jumping from ancient column to ancient stone, running beneath the arches of the aqueducts and reclining in the ruined atrium of an ancient domus.

Sleeping where it can

 

The most beloved cat sanctuary is on Largo di Torre Argentina. Here, back in 44BC, the dictator, Julius Caesar was murdered . Today around 150 stray cats are housed and cared for in a 100 square metre storage room beneath the street and next to the ruins of four ancient temples.

The site was excavated in 1927 following the discovery of a colossal marble head and arms. The large underground chambers that were revealed became a favourite place for the city strays to seek refuge. The cats were fed by a succession of 'gattare' - cat ladies - one of whom was the actress, Anna Magnani who, on breaks from rehearsals at the nearby Teatro Argentina, would stop by the sanctuary to feed and pet the cats. 

By 1993, the amount of cats had grown to such an extent there was too much work for the lone gattara. Two women, Livia and Silvia joined forces and over time with the help of generous donations have built the sanctuary up into what it is today.

They have faced problems, the latest being eviction from the site when it was claimed the shelter had invaded a temple and offended the dignity of the Area Sacra. 

It all came to a head as the archaeological authorities launched a campaign in National papers to turn public opinion against the sanctuary and  politicians stepped forward in defense of the sanctuary. Over 30,000 petitions were collected and the sanctuary was safe.

In 2013, one of the founders, Lia passsed away. Today, there are 150 cats. They and their helpers are still squatters and the underground chamber which houses the shelter is not connected to the city sewers. 

Other famous colonies are those at the Protestant cemetary behind Piramide and at the Verano cemetary where an estimated 500 cats frolic among the tombs.

All over the city there are areas set up with boxes and bowls  for the many strays that live in Rome. The gattare often private citizens or members of voluntary organisations work hard to make sure the cats are well-fed and sterilised. There are an estimated 400 colonie feline (feline colonies) on Roman territory.

 


Many condominium housing complexes also have a cat or mini-colonies that help with the problem of rats. The cats and their gattare, according to a survey mainly middle aged women, are important to the city. And while some people choose to see the street cats as little more than vermin of a similar ilk to pigeons and rats, others realise the important part they play in the city.

Rome just wouldn't be Rome without its cats.

Street cats who got lucky.

September: Bentornati

September tends to come as a relief. Finally, after almost three months holiday the children return to school. Or as a neighbour put it, "the grand-parents can breathe again." As so many parents work children are ferried from relatives to relatives in an effort to keep them busy, or for the very little ones, find someone who can take care of them. Thus a far from unusual sight in the parks in summer is an elderly man or woman pushing a stroller or over-seeing some toddlers at play. 

But September also means a return to normal schedules. All shops are open, most people are back at work and in the second week the kids return to school. Everything starts up again.

Waiting for the bus on my first day of work, I noted how after the summer nothing had really changed: the bus shelter smelled of piss, discarded garments littered the pavement, the gutter was full of (already) autumnal leaves, and the bus was taking an age to pass.

By the end of the day, an end-of-summer storm, a burst of wind and rain, had temporarily cooled down temperatures .The accumulation of leaves and rubbish in the gutters had helped to flood some of the city's major arteries and closed down parts of the underground. A weekend later a repeat performance caused identical damage with the mayor of the city blaming the trees for the flooding. Nobody it seems pointed out to her that were the streets and sewers regularly cleaned flooding was avoidable. On the postive side, the threatened water rationing never happened. Two summer storms were enough to push off the rationing to another day.

September means work again, it means schedules again, it means life parceled off into hours. It's a long haul 'til the next holidays!


 

Ferragosto - more than a day

Once upon a time, a large capital city known for its glorious past, would shut-down for an entire month. That's right: the whole month!  And in the middle of that month was a day: a holiday. This was the day of Ferragosto, on the 15th of August. It also happened to coincide with a major event in the Catholic calendar: the Assumption of Mary.

I was yet again stuck in Rome for Ferragosto. As I left my flat to walk the dog I noted that the small supermarket at the foot of the building was open, so was another one up the road. I crossed over the Via Cristoforo Colombo, one of the large arteries in and out of Rome, and saw that it was busy.

 During my walk I remembered my first Ferragosto. It had been almost surreal. Not a soul on the streets, empy car parks, all shops and supermarkets closed, maybe a bar open, the kind that has five bottles of alcohol half empty on a dusty shelf with an aging coffee machine and glasses so old that no matter how often they are cleaned they remain cloudy with the patina of eons of lime scale. It was so silent I could hear the mosquitoes buzz.

Today was a different affair. In the age of austerity, people can no longer afford month long breaks. Supermarkets and grocery stores were open. Bars were doing business. People were about. And those cars on the Colombo, were full of people heading to the beach for their one day off. The sixteenth they would be back in the office.

The Ferriae Augusti (Festivals of the Emperor Augustus) date back to ancient times. These festivals celebrated the end of harvest, the vinalia for the grape harvest and the Consualia in honour of harvest and stored grain, and it provided a long period of rest known as the Augustali. Hence August became the holiday month.

The tradition of going on a trip over Ferragosto arose under the fascist regime. Citizens of a lower social class were give the possibility of one-day or three-day trips either to the sea, the mountains or a cultural city such as Florence or Rome. For many it would have been the first time they got to go out of their home town.

New bridge, Garbatella, Ferragosto

Nowadays, while the children still get their three months summer holidays, from the first days of June til around the tenth of September, a challenge for any parent trying to find ways of keeping them busy, most adults cannot afford more than a couple of weeks. The off-spring are farmed out to grand-parents and summer camps, the parents meet them at weekends and over Ferragosto most will take their holiday, but for many who no longer have their summer retreat by the sea or in the mountains, it is a break in the city with day trips out or picnics in the park.

Of course, some like to ignore this change in habits possibly because it suits them to do so. The Roman public transport company, ATAC, maintains that once schools are closed for the summer they can implement their two-phase summer schedule, for which there used to be published timetables. This year at bus stops which exhibit timetables the unuseful sign has gone up 'line timetable being established.' I like to think of the summer scheduling as: first phase: buses leave when drivers want to drive them; second phase, in August: who knows when the bus'll turn up. As one bus driver wryly put it: "unfortunately most of the 'dirigente' (managers) still think we're in the sixties. They see no need to change things."

Once upon a time, Romans could afford to take a month off. Today, even taking the day off for some has become difficult, though others still maintain that Ferragosto lasts at least a week.

Furbizia - a way of life

Sally came into the kitchen where I was chopping up zucchini for the sauce that would go with my pasta. I’d bought farfalle, butterflies, my favourite shape. 

She announced “there’s no word for liar in Italian.” I paused, knife suspended in mid-air. This didn’t seem plausible. I also guessed she had had some kind of disagreement with her new, and already on the wane boyfriend, Carlo.

It had all started out so idyllically. They’d met at one of the army bases where we were teaching conscripts. It was, in fact, the last year when military service would be compulsory. The poor boys didn’t want to be there nor did they want to be taught English. We got the feeling that the army i.e. the Italian state, therefore the tax payer, was footing the bill for these lessons because they really had no idea how to keep the boys occupied, other than cleaning weapons and running laps.

 

Carlo had approached her at lunch time and invited her to the officers’ canteen for lunch. He extolled the qualities of the food, it was the best army mensa in the capital. He was joking. The food was prepared by the conscripts, most of whom couldn’t cook.

He then invited her to his place for a ‘proper dinner.’ He made pasta with tuna, lemon and parsley. It has since become a summer favourite. He then took her to the famous keyhole up on the Aventine, and sealed the deal with a rose bought from one of the semi-permanently encamped rose sellers.

I continued chopping, and drizzled some oil into the frying pan. I set it on low. No word for liar? That couldn’t be right, I thought while Sally filled me in on the latest argument.

It wasn’t. I don’t know which dictionary she was using, but it turned out that there are as many words for liar as there are in most Western languages (to my knowledge).

Verb: mentire (to lie); Personal noun: bugiardo/bugiarda (liar); Dire una bugia (tell a lie); Una bugia bianca (a white lie) etc….

However, as things eventually ended up Carlo was more furbo than bugiardo. This concept ‘essere furbo’ had me baffled. It seemed negative yet solicited admiration. Being 'furbo' or 'furba' seems to be approved as a necessary 'quality' to get by in hard (and not so hard) times.

In my first flat,  our landlady at that time, the Signora Bulgarelli, charged rent on a 4-week basis, thus ekking out a thirteenth month of rent. When I told an Italian acquaintance this she nodded, smiled and commented “molto furba la Signora.” I could only deduce from her attitude that this was a good thing, and erroneously guessed, that in Italy everyone charged thirteen month’s rent. It was the furba thing to do.

 Furbo/furba translates as smart or clever but also cunning, crafty, shrewd or sly, depending on the situation and who it is being applied to. The expression 'fare il furbo' means to jump a queue. And, 'non fare il furbo' means "Don't try to get smart with me."

My second landlady, in my basement flat, decided one day to charge me for the annual servicing of the gas meter. I didn’t know it was something owners and not tenants paid so handed over twenty euros. Again, this was an example of furbizia, coupled to the fact that she’d got one up on someone who wasn’t in the know, an ingenuous foreigner. 

There is a saying “L’Italia è il paese dei furbi.” Italy is the land of the sly, crafty or shrewd.

La furbizia goes from the trivial such as the person who manages to slip in front of you in a queue (usual, and sometimes legitimate, excuses: I’m old; I’ve only got two items; I’m with my son, he’s 5 years old; I’m pregnant; my dog is waiting outside; I’m double-parked etc….) to the more serious such as getting an indemnisation for an invented invalidity (the financial police have nabbed blind people driving, for instance, or tetraplegics re-tiling roofs); or employing people without legal documents or paying them proper (if at all) wages; or renting 'in nero'. Pulling one over on the system has 'furbi' kudos, or so it would seem.

 Added to that are the legions of raccomandati  (the recommended) that take up office space with their jobs for life that they got because daddy is the boss or daddy is best pals with the boss but they didn’t actually have any qualifications pertinent to the job, or did get their university degree after ten years at university, eternally postponing exams. Most offices have at least one fanullone ( a do-nothing). Again they are the furbi, they have a job for life without trying and without having to do anything for it.

 Admirable, isn’t it?

Well, no, it isn’t.  

To quote (my translation) an esteemed Italian journalist and wit, Pezzolini: Italy goes on because of the ‘stupid’ people, ‘I fessi’. These people work, pay and die. Those who give the impression that they are making Italy work are the ‘furbi’, they don’t do anything, they spend a lot and they have a good time.” He also added that he was with the ‘fessi’.

 “L’Italia va avanti perché ci sono I fessi. I fessi lavorano, pagano, crepano. Chi fa la figura di mandare avanti l’Italia sono i furbi, che non fanno nulla, spendono e se la godono.”

It had little to do with intelligence, according to Pezzolini. It was more a question of the 'fessi' having principles and the 'furbi' having aims.

 As for Carlo, Sally's boyfriend, he was as 'furbo' as they come, he had a 'fidanzata' (long -standing girlfriend) back in his hometown of Modena.