primo giorno

Day one. Rome. It's hot, it's sexy and everyone smokes. Champix, I am going to be counting on you.
So I have bitten the bullet. Starting a blog means commitment. Maybe not daily, but we shall see how things pan out. 
I await Timmy's arrival at our room in the Navona Palace, sophisticated and stylish, hotel to a man's man, a lady's man and two men about town men, Roscoe and Timmy.
We are here but for one day. Not enough time to build Rome, but enough time paint it red. But first things first.  Tim arrives. We enjoy a light, summer Roman lunch. Prosciutto, melon, salad and red wine. Now it was time to try my hand at this siesta business. 
I am not one for afternoon naps. I have many issues with the concept.  The shackles of Catholic guilt (have I earnt it?). Anxiety (there is always something I should be doing). Ageing (I need less sleep).  Or maybe I am just not a siesta sort of guy. After our lunch I lay myself down at 4pm. I woke at 8.30. That is a four and half hour nap. This wasn’t jet lag. It was sleep of the dead. Of someone who wasn't thinking of what next.  I was in no hurry to get anywhere anytime.  I was the new king of siesta. 

Night one in Rome and I was ready.

The serendipity of this vacation seemed endless.  My last day at work and I was visited by Samuello, a local egg farmer, who was offering to supply eggs to the cafe.  I told Sam I would call him when I get back from Italy.  You  must go to a place called two fat men when in Rome, he said. We were in Rome, so we did. Trouble was trying to find the place. 
Two Fat Men is not what we would call legal. It is not listed. It is not licenced. It is just a Roman dude cooking whatever tickles his Roman fancy. Lucky for us, it had recently been written up in the New York Times. Roscoe and Timmy - so cutting egde. 

Recession eating is in right now. And Italy has been hit hard. Two fat men (Due Ciccioni) is off the beaten map. It is on the edge of edgy Trastavere, swarming with masses on a hot Tuesday night. We struggle through jam packed piazzas. We find our street and suddenly things are quiet. Where did all the people go? Tourists are replaced by tanned youths, hanging out and trying to look dangerous, unaware they are too hot to be dangerous to anyone but themselves.  We follow the sound of cutlery and soft voices in the night. We turn a corner to see diners. Several tables line the graffiti scarred walls and as we approach a woman stands and asks ‘due?’. Yes. We take our table at this hole on the wall.

There is no menu which means no choice. We are abrogated of any responsibility so Timmy is in heaven. And so am I.

Three plates of food and one bottle of something red are on our table within minutes. One plate has torn, grilled bread topped with chopped tomatoes, sweet olive oil and fragrant dried oregano. There is another bowl of something orange and mashed. It may have been pumpkin, mashed with olive oil and lemon juice.  And the third is an ancient dish; fava beans slow cooked with probably nothing more than water, garlic and bay. Brutally honest and delicious. We then had a pasta, a type I have not seen; little tubes like fat calamari rings. Perfect shapes to scoop up the cream and porcetta (bacon) sauce. We were offered more food, but stopped there. The plates are cleared and the grappa and limencello are put on the table, signifying the end of the meal. 

We eat food that Romans ate centuries ago, conquerors and puttana alike. No place for the fuss-pot foodies, neurotics and the dietary intolerables. It may have been the romantic lighting, the backdrop of stairs that led nowhere, the ancient cobbled stones, the graffitied walls, the happy people mindful of this special moment. Or maybe it was simply that this food has tasted this good for two millenia.