Morgan and Hugo

My dog Morgan loves to be the centre of attention. He adores having people make a fuss of him. At the dog park, he is certain to greet all of the people and to give each of them ample time to admire and pet him while he rubs against their legs like a cat (one of his many nicknames is ‘Morgan the kitty-cat.’). Or if there are people sitting at one of the picnic tables in the dog zone, he jumps onto the table and starts licking their faces or poking them with his paw if they are not sufficiently awestruck by his cuteness. When I have friends over, he basically goes from lap to lap. After his big sister Lula died a few months ago, I was afraid that he would be distraught, as Lula had been when her brother Shipy ran away several years ago.

Morgan and his big sis

And he was distraught (and for several weeks he did this thing of sitting in front of the bookcase where I put her ashes and staring at the urn for moments at a time). But it didn’t last long. To be honest, I think he was actually pretty happy not to have to share the spotlight with Lula anymore. The problem is that he no longer has her to play and hang out with 24-7 (which is precisely the number of hours of the day and days of the week that he needs to be entertained). Which leaves me to be chief playmate.

If I happen to be sitting at my computer — as I usually am — he sits next to me and looks at me with intense doggie concentration until I react.

Play with me now!

If I don’t react fast enough he starts to whine. If I’m on the couch he goes to his toy box and pulls out the toys, one by one. He also spends a lot of time staring out the window at his friends playing in the park. And whining.

What am I missing out there? Everybody’s having fun but me!

So you can imagine my delight when he started to bond with one of the stray cats who hang around our building. There are about five of them — brothers and sisters whose mother was hit by a car. They are about a year old. One of them is particularly friendly and handsome and this fellow has taken a shine to the Morgster. He runs out whenever we come by, often accompanying us on our walks. The dog and cat sniff each other’s bums and sometimes engage in a bit of good natured wrestling.

Morgan and his cat friend check each other out.

I’m not quite ready to get another dog and, even though I’m not much of a cat person, I was pretty happy about the idea of bringing home a buddy for my pup. Woohoo (I thought)! The whining ends here.

I got in all the gear — hot pink cat carrier, bowls, food, a very cute kitty litter box (I know that sounds weird but this one has cat drawings all over it) — and set off to bring Hugo (which is what I named him) home with the assistance of the Upstairs Vegetarian.

The Rolls Royce of kitty litter boxes

Hugo did not like this plan AT ALL! After several attempts, which featured lots of banshee-like crying and scratching, we got him into the carrier and then into the apartment. Thus ensued ten minutes of pure bedlam: more banshee shrieks; Morgan chasing the cat and jumping all over him. Hugo was terrified and Morgan was protecting his territory like the little alpha dog drama queen he is. We finally opened the window and the cat jumped out to freedom (I’m on the first floor; it’s an easy jump). I guess it was not to be. The interesting thing is that by the next day all was back to normal. The two still play together and Hugo still comes with us on walks. I’ve been advised to put some cat food on the widow sill and see if he comes inside to check it out but I fear that once an outdoor cat, always an outdoor cat.

Hugo!

Boccondivino!

Yesterday was the 68th Festa della Liberazione, which marks the liberation of Italy from the Germans. It’s usually celebrated by a bunch of soldiers, sailors and all of the millions of difference kinds of police forces they have here marching around in their Armani uniforms and also cycle races for some reason. The German occupation of Italy (and by extension, the German dis-occupation of Rome) is a subject of great interest to me and I’ll write about it another time. Right now I want to tell you about Boccondivino.

The Upstairs Vegetarian’s oldest friend Giulia has been collecting paintings in exotic places for many years. She’s now decided to make a little business out of her passion and she’s started to display and sell some of her paintings at a number of venues around town, among which is Boccondivino (it can be translated as either divine mouthful or mouthful of wine), a restaurant in Campo Marzio. This neighbourhood (Campo Marzio means ‘Field of Mars’ – the Roman God of War) was used for military training in ye super olde Roman times; in latter day ye olde times (the Republic and early Empire years), gyms, circuses and temples were established for regular citizens as well. Piazza Navona (aka the Stadium of Domitian) is in the middle of Campo Marzio.

Here are some of the paintings on display.

The love for children by Gabriel Eklou of Ghana

A dance to my music by Kofi Agorsor of Ghana

Aren’t they fantastic? There are plenty more where these came from and they are for sale.

The food was fantastic as well. But before we get to that, let me just say that Boccondivino is located in a 16th Century palazzo, which itself integrates an ancient Roman structure, including four granite columns. The restaurant is modern and cool and you can eat outside. Now on to the food!

There was an American couple sitting at the next table and they were discreetly eavesdropping as Giulia toured us around the paintings. We got to chatting and they highly recommended an appetizer, which we all ordered. Feast your eyes on this! Yes, I know it’s a terrible picture but use your imagination.

Fried artichoke in a puddle of pecorino fondue with balsamic reduction. Oh my!

This is officially now one of my favourite things to eat in the world. Have been fantasizing about it ever since. Moving on, I had a delicious Pollo alla Romana and a gigantic plate of asparagus, which we shared around the table. Pollo alla Romana is a super traditional Roman chicken dish featuring tomatoes and red bell peppers. It’s one of my most favourite Italian dishes and, in fact, the very first thing I ever ate in a restaurant after I moved to Rome (somehow I remember that) but you only rarely see it on menus these days as Rome restaurants are tending to move away from the traditional and into the foam and dust direction.

Good old-fashioned Pollo alla Romana

Perfectly cooked spring asparagus

Giulia had a delicious pasta dish with eggplant, ricotta and little tomatoes. She had a humorous and lengthy negotiation with the waiter about how she didn’t want it served with the pasta listed on the menu — something about sauce to pasta surface density ratio — but, incredibly, he forgot and she got the mezza maniche (half sleeves) anyway.

Short-sleeved pasta

Susan had eggplant parmesan, which was lovely and light, and the Upstairs Vegetarian had a fantastic spaghetti carbonara with seafood.

Eggplant parmesan – a long way from the heavy breaded and super cheesy Italo-American version you get in the States.

Seafood carbonara (eggs, parsley, parmesan, shrimps and scallops)

For dessert, we split a taster tray of mini tiramisu, strawberry mousse and molten chocolate cake. It was, as it appears, superb.

Dessert tray

Highly recommended, this place. It’s open everyday from 12:30-11 pm. The open all day thing is highly unusual for Rome but super handy if you get a little craving for fried artichoke and cheese fondue at teatime. Giulia’s show runs until 1 May.

Boccondivino!

Boccondivino
Piazza Campo Marzio 6, Rome
Tel: 39 68308626

Ostia Antica

Spring has finally sprung in the Caput Mundi and, to celebrate, the Upstairs Vegetarian, the Morgster and I headed out to Ostia Antica. Ostia was Ancient Rome’s seaport and is about 20 miles northeast of the city. This is one of my favourite day trips out of Rome. It’s a huge and sprawling site, covering 80 acres and because it’s not as well known as, say, Pompeii, it often feels like you have the place to yourself, at least once you get off the main thoroughfare.

Welcome to Ostia Antica!

Yesterday, for some reason, most of the visitors seemed to be French, including several groups of French schoolchildren who toured the site waving flags and singing. Most odd. Ostia Antica is a great place for a picnic and they welcome dogs.

Back in the day, Ostia lay at the mouth of the Tiber. Now, due to silting, the sea is a mile and a bit away. Legend has it that Ostia was originally founded by Ancus Marcius, the 4th King of Rome in the 7th century BCE, although the oldest archeological remains on the site date to the 4th century BCE. The town was sacked by pirates in 68 BCE. The pirates set the port on fire, destroyed the consular fleet and kidnapped two senators. The sacking prompted a law granting 39 year old Pompey the Great tremendous power: he was placed in charge of a naval task force to solve the pirate issue, which he did inside of three months. I just love a good pirate yarn, don’t you? Here’s some other things about pirates you may not know:

• When he was 25, Julius Caesar was captured by Sicilian pirates, who wanted to ransom him for 20 talents of silver (about $600 000 nowadays). This was before he got into politics. He laughed at them and demanded they ask for 50 talents, which they did. Caesar hung out with the pirates for about a month, while his buddies were rounding up the money. He bossed them around, read them poetry and played games with them. It was all very buddy-buddy. After he was released, he came back and had them all crucified. He also got all the money back.  
• 19 September is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Aaarrrr!
• One of the language options available on Facebook is Pirate English.
• One of Morgan’s nicknames in the dog park is the Little Pirate (Il Piccolo Pirata). That’s because of his swashbuckling manner and also because of Captain Morgan’s rum, named after the 17th century Welsh privateer.

Shiver me timbers!

Now where were we? Ostia was further developed by Tiberius, Claudius (who rebuilt the harbour) and Trajan in the 1st century CE. At its height in the 3rd century, Ostia had about 50 000 inhabitants.

Columbaria (dovecotes), where urns containing the ashes of Ostian citizens were buried. They can be found in the necropolis at the Porta Romana entrance to Ostia Antica. Burials always took place outside of cities in ancient Roman times.

Eventually, Ostia was eclipsed in importance by a newer port (quite reasonably known as Portus). For awhile, the city became the place for rich Romans to build their summer houses but it declined after the fall of the Empire, got sacked some more and was finally abandoned in the 9th century. Abandoned but not forgotten: for centuries, the marble facades of Ostia Antican buildings were stripped, the marble used in Roman palazzi and various cathedrals around Italy. After that, foreign visitors came searching for statues and inscriptions to grace their private collections. The first excavations started in the 19th century and picked up pace in the 1930s under Mussolini (of course), who wanted to showcase Ostia Antica in the 1942 World’s Fair. The Fair never occurred, Mussolini being otherwise occupied.

Today, walking along Ostia Antica’s narrow stone streets gives you a real sense of what it must have been like to live way back when.

The theatre at Ostia Antica. Concerts are often held here in the summertime.

People lived in multistory apartment buildings, transacted business, shopped and worshipped in various fora (Ostia has 20), hung out at the public baths (and in communal latrines), drank in wine bars, where pictures of the offerings were posted on the walls for the benefit of the illiterate.

An Ostian bar, where a mosaic message on the floor reads (roughly) “Fortunatus’s Place. You know you’re thirsty — come on in and have a drink.”

A menu for the benefit of the illiterate customers at Fortunatus’ place, where you could apparently get carrots, lentils and pomegranates to go with your glass of wine.

You can see the remains of restaurants, shops, bakeries and the oldest synagogue in Europe. The site has a decent cafeteria, nice little museum and souvenir shop featuring a very grumpy non-dog friendly cat.

Mosaic on the floor of a shop that presumably sold fish.

Did this shop sell elephants?

Gang latrine at Ostia, where it appears that ablutions were a sort of social event. Kinda reminds me of college.

The synagogue dates from the reign of Claudius (41-54 CE). There are little carvings of menorahs on top of the columns.

Helpful signage explaining that the mosaic of Neptune is closed for maintenance and expressing regret there for the uneasiness.

It’s easy to get here by taking from the Ostiense station to Ostia Lido. Here’s a great website and a reconstruction of what Ostia Antica would have looked like in ye olde times. And just for fun, some footage of the 1938 excavations, complete with a visit by Mussolini.

Where to next?

Zoc!

The Upstairs Vegetarian is a very fine journalist who works for an esteemed publication and, as you might have heard, Rome has been awash with newsworthy goings on as of late. So she’s been working hugely long days for weeks. To celebrate the whole Pope thing getting more or less sorted out and the fact that it was a glorious spring day after what has seemed like months of torrential rains, we treated ourselves to a nice long walk with the reward of brunch at the end (of course, rain was threatening again by the end of the day). The Morgster was delighted to be invited along. 

Springtime in Villa Pamphili. ©epovoledo

We ended up at Zoc, the restaurant that fed the U.V. and her journalist colleagues over the past month while they rushed around doorstepping cardinals and searching the horizon for white smoke. She’s has been raving about Zoc and it was very good indeed. Zoc is very much into the whole kilometer zero business as is its trendy sister in Monti, Urbana 47. Kilometer zero normally refers to the particular location (usually in a capital city) from which distances are measured. The Milliarum Aureum (Golden Milestone) was a marble column (possibly) that was covered by gilded bronze. It was erected by the Emperor Caesar Augustus in 20 AD near the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum. All roads in the Empire were declared to begin at this monument and all distances measured from there; whence cometh ‘All roads lead to Rome.’ In Italian foodie language, kilometer zero (or ‘km 0′ for the hipster foodies) has become the battle cry of Italy’s growing locavore movement, which is based on the principles of direct supply chain and locally foraged ingredients. Locavore means, not to put too fine a point on it, ‘eater of local food.’ Zoc espouses all of this but they also rely heavily on a lot of foreign spices. Not sure I get the logic there but anyway.

The restaurant is cute and filled with lots of funky vintage furniture. Because of the dog, we opted for the garden, which looked a bit like Honey Boo Boo’s backyard, to be honest. Do you know about this person? Honey Boo Boo is the star of a massively popular reality show (Here Comes Honey Boo Boo Child); she’s a seven year old beauty pageant participant from Georgia. Honey Boo Boo is somewhat of a foodie herself. She loves ‘ sketti,’ an old family recipe (ketchup+melted butter poured over cooked noodles). Here’s how it’s done. I could watch this video forever.

Because they made us wait a bit before taking our order, the restaurant offered a little starter, which was creamy scrambled eggs over crispy shredded carrot, artichoke and onion.

Scrambled egg over fried veggies.

Next, the Upstairs Vegetarian had a plate of grilled aged stracchino cheese atop a little mound of steamed greens and spicy jam. I, ever true to my  carnivorous nature, had a succulent barbecued pork rib and patatas bravas, a Spanish tapas dish featuring fried potatoes with a peppery sauce.

Melted cheese is never a bad idea.

Nor for that matter is barbecued pork.

No complaints about the food; it was really good. Sadly they were out of the codfish hotdog, which I was dying to try. Doesn’t that sound awesome? But I do have a rant to rave. It being Sunday and early afternoon and brunch being on the rise in these here parts, they brought us the following menu.

You call this brunch? Seriously?

Don’t get me wrong; this all looks delicious: crisp rösti potatoes with scrambled eggs on top (Okay, so that’s a bit brunch-y); ravioli stuffed with curried chicken; lamb chops; orange sorbet. A good price for four courses. I would eat it all happily. But Italy, a word? I have been lobbying very hard against the overwhelming urge of Americans to order a panini (plural) when what they want is a panino (singular). Likewise with biscotti/biscotto.  The least you can do in return is to get this brunch thing right. Brunch is a neologism (relatively speaking) that combines the words (and, importantly, the concepts of) breakfast and lunch. That means eggs (preferably of the Benedict variety), bacon, lox and bagels, mimosas, tons of coffee and jazz. The Sunday New York Times would not be amiss. Call me a snob who spent too much time in NYC, but brunch is not simply lunch that happens to take place on the weekend.

Via delle Zoccolette 22 (Ponte Sisto).Tel: +39 06 68192515. Open for breakfast from 9.00 to 12.00; lunch (saturday and sunday brunch – HA!) from 12.30 to 15.30; dinner from 19:00 to 24:00.

 

Le Coq (again)

There’s been a lot going on in Italy lately what with Habemus Papam and Non Habemus Governum and I probably should be writing about that. But there are others far more qualified than I to do that; so I will just steer you their way and write about restaurants instead.

I have written about Le Coq before but I love it so much that I feel compelled to gush some more. It is honestly my favourite place to eat right now and the fact that it is merely ten minutes from where I live is just icing on the cake. If you are in Monteverde, you simply must eat there. Or make a special trip. It’s really not that out of your way and it totally blows the doors off its near neighbour Cesare al Casaletto, which many people adore but which I think is super overrated. I will concede that Cesare’s antipasto is still very nice but the rest of his offerings seems to have gone really downhill since the first time I ate there (and gushed about it). The pastas are meh, the main courses boring and overcooked, the pizza is greasy. And the service has been absolutely atrocious the last several times I have eaten there. I can forgive almost anything but not atrocious service. Grump. Now I’ve put myself in a bad mood. Quick, back to Le Coq!

The thing that I really love about Le Coq is its cosiness. It feels like nothing bad can happen to you there. The front room is pretty and well lighted but I always head to the back, where there are wicker chairs, a tented ceiling, paper lanterns, fairy lights and colourful paintings on the walls.

The back room at Le Coq

The food is cozy too; it does stray into the neighbourhood of dust and foam from time to time, but not in an overly gimmicky way. The last time I was there, the very friendly waitress first brought us not one but two amuse bouches from the kitchen. Man, I love when they do that. The first was a little fried meatball of boiled meat in a puddle of garlicky salsa verde. The second was a perfect crunchy shrimp in a passion fruit mayonnaise.

Every bit as good as Cesare’s meatballs btw.

Crunchy shrimp on a stick.

Next came the antipasto. I had scallops (which I love but are very hard to find in these here parts) on top of crispy fried pork belly, cream of pumpkin and this grass stuff the Italians call agretti (or Barba di Frate, Monk’s Beard).

Yay scallops!

Jane had an egg that had been cooked at 65 degrees C for an hour and then placed atop some broccoletti and parmesan and smoked tea foam (I know, I know. But it was really good).

Comfort food at its finest.

I very rarely eat pasta but as this was (nearly) my birthday, and in the spirit of scholarly pursuit, I ordered a dish that combined two classic pasta styles: ravioli stuffed with cacio e pepe (pecorino romano cheese and black pepper) and sauced with amatriciana, which is based on guanciale (cured pig cheek, pecorino and tomato). Crazy good and I don’t even want to think of the calories in that one.

Ravioli cacio e pepe all’amatriciana con guanciale di Sauris affumicato

Jane had sort of gnocchi things stuffed with n’duja (a soft, spicy hot, spreadable salami from Calabria) and sauced with a sort of broccoletti pesto. Spicy! And also delicious!

Spicy stuffed gnocchi.

A lot of cheeks on the menu tonight for some reason.

The main course for me was slow-braised beef cheeks with spinach on a puree or Jerusalem artichoke and, for Jane, roast lamb with mashed potatoes and crispy artichokes.

Roast lamb.

For dessert we split a sort of molten chocolate mousse thing. No photo of that, sorry. Ate it too fast.

Le Coq is open Monday through Saturday for dinner and Sunday at lunch. They do a tasting menu, which I have yet to venture. Do yourself a favour and go.

Le Coq, Viale di Villa Pamphili 35c, 00152 Rome, Italy. Phone: +39 06 5833 5146

Random Colombia

I spent last week in Cali, Colombia for work and here’s what I ate: fried stuff (mostly cassava, plantain and potatoes) and meat (mostly beef and chicken). I also drank a LOT of fruit juice.

Long-time readers may recall my obsession with Indonesian fruit juices. I now have to say that the Colombian offerings blow the doors off their Asian cousins, which celebrate delicious but fairly common fruits like pineapple, watermelon and mango. Colombian juices by contrast are based on indigenous fruits that you will be hard pressed to find outside of the region: guanabana (a flavour like strawberry plus pineapple with an underlying hint of coconut), lulo (a combination of rhubarb and lime), maracuya (aka passion fruit). So good.

Lulo juice for breakfast — and some fried stuff. 

Our last night in Cali (I was there for a workshop), we went to Delirio, a circus/salsa show/spectacle. There were like 150 salsa dancers between the ages of 7 and 50. You can check it out here. Don’t operate any heavy equipment after watching the video. I enjoyed the show at first, although I found it a bit difficult to follow the plot. Apparently a native girl named Mary married a British lord who descended on her village with apparent colonial intent. I really don’t recall that part of Colombian history. There were lots of dancing animals.

Some animals on their way to Mary’s wedding.

At a certain point a salsa homage to Michael Jackson was introduced into the story. Fine.

He lives!

Certain aspects of the show reminded me of 1950s Havana complete with Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, cigars and chorus girls. I’ve been reading a lot about that era and it’s pretty fascinating. Round about hour 3 of the spectacle I started to fantasize about  going to Cuba

It’s Carmen Miranda time!

That got me thinking about Cuban handsome man/cultural curator Andy Garcia, which started me wondering whether Kevin Costner has made any movie since The Untouchables that didn’t made me want to poke him in the eye. And that made me wonder if Susan Sarandan is still dating that young guy and playing table tennis. Is it true her kid was really conceived on the Spanish Steps? Spanish Steps. Keats. Shelley. Frankenstein. Why have I never read that book? Shelley drowned on his way way from Livorno, called Leghorn in English. Foghorn Leghorn. “Go away boy, you bother me.” You see how my mind works? Monkey, monkey, underpants.

Round about hour 4, the entire workshop was fast asleep, heads on the tablecloth strewn with bits of fried cassava and pork rinds. Meanwhile, the rest of the audience was taking advantage of one of the many intermissions to engage in a bit of salsa madness of their own. We finally prevailed on the evening’s organizer to let us go home at around 1:30 am. The spectacle was still going strong. I must say I did enjoy the show. But I would have enjoyed it much more if it had finished about two hours earlier, perhaps just after the MJ medley.

Now here’s a thing. I went to a bank machine at some point during the week, thinking I might need a few pesos just in case. The bank machine turned me down, as I find often happens when I try to get money outside of Italy. The alternative was filling out a lot of paperwork at the bank and waiting overnight — something about how it’s difficult to exchange euros. I had just resigned myself to doing just that when my phone rang. It was my bank back in Rome! “Are you in Colombia” the charming man said. “I am.” “Are you trying to get money from a bank machine?” “Yes.” “How many times will you need to do that?” “Just the once.” “OK. you should be able to get the money now.” And I could! Just like that! It may seem odd to be telling you this story. But believe me, as anyone who has ever done any business with an Italian bank will readily confirm, such a level of responsiveness and professionalism is downright unheard of. It was my own little Lenten miracle.

For Lula

Here in Italy, it is fairly unusual to see an obituary in the newspaper unless the deceased is someone famous. Instead, people hang small posters on public notice boards with a photo, basic information about the person and the time and place of the funeral. I’ve never actually noticed this in Rome but you see it in small towns all the time. I took a bunch of photos of these manefesti funebri when I was in Puglia last summer. After the funeral, mourners are usually given a ricordino, a wallet-sized laminated card with a photo of the dear departed, birth and death dates and usually a prayer.

104!!!!!

Nor was this guy a spring chicken.

Puglian death notices

Dogs don’t generally rate newspaper obituaries or manifesti funebri but I guess if you’ve got a blog you can do what you want. My dog Lula died just over a week ago. This is for her.

Lovely Lulabelle

Tallulah Bankhead Raymond died on 5 February 2013 at 4:00 in the afternoon. She was 15 years old. I found Lula in a cardboard box in Campo di Fiori when she was just a few months old. She had been dumped outside a dog shelter along with her sisters and the shelter people brought the puppies into town and were offering them to anyone who could give them a good home. I had lost my dog Badger just a few months before and although I enjoyed the freedom from responsibility and the spontaneous life of the non-dog owner, that really paled by comparison to how great it is to be one.

Lula was never an easy dog. I imagine she’d had some serious traumas before she found her way to that box in Campo di Fiori. She was scared of so many things — long-haired German Shepherds, thunder, the handsome vet, bald headed men, blue eyed dogs. For the first few years, she hid under the bed when anyone came over that she didn’t know. I put her through two years of doggie therapy — yes, I am serious — and that helped a lot. She never lost her initial fear of strangers but she’d usually loosen up with them after a bit of time.

About 8 years ago, Lula was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease, which occurs  when the adrenal glands don’t produce sufficient steroid hormones. President Kennedy had Addison’s. Lula took pills and had injections every day for the rest of her life.

Lula was not an easy dog nor did she have an easy life. But she was incredibly loving and loyal and sweet. She loved Morgan and she loved me. She loved her Aunties. She loved to swim. It’s very quiet around here these days — Lula was a barker — and we miss her so much. I keep seeing her out of the corner of my eyes and expecting her to greet me at the door.

Now here’s a thing. I had Lula cremated and they brought me her ashes in a little box earlier this week. I put the box on the top of a bookshelf in the hall. The first time Morgan passed by the bookcase he did this.

At first I thought it was some crazy coincidence. Maybe there was a ball or cookie on the bookcase that had caught his eye? But now I’m not so sure. Since Tuesday, literally every time I have brought Morgan in from a walk and he’s passed by the bookcase, he sits for a minute and stares at Lula’s ashes. It’s creepy. But it’s also pretty wonderful.

The Morgster has a moment of rare silence for Big Sis.

My beautiful girl