Rome and Armando al Pantheon — A Harmonious Symphony Of Aromas and Sounds

From vineyards to glass, from kitchen to table, between strangers to friends. Here, in this moment, life was rich, the evening was full, and everything was deeply satisfying.

The cobblestone streets of Rome have a way of speaking to you, whispering the secrets of this ancient city as your heels scrape rhythmically against cobblestoned ancient surfaces. Enjoying Rome at dusk is a privilege. By this time, the heat from the day was gently starting to dissipate. Tourists were taking a break from running around the city and taking in the landmarks. Local teenagers were hanging around the piazzas spooning down gelato and just letting the gentle breeze wash over them as they escaped the setting sun by sitting in the shadows of the monuments and cathedrals. This evening, I wandered into the Piazza della Rotonda, enjoying the accessibility of the timeless, gorgeous and ancient piazza, the Pantheon standing as a colossal beacon of history, drawing in foreign admirers and locals alike. The sun began its languorous dip below the horizon, the fading light casting the Pantheon’s columns into stark relief, a marvel of architectural prowess enduring through millennia. It’s a sight that stops you in your tracks, a silent sentinel overseeing the ebb and flow of the modern tide. A view that is both unexpected and one that you cannot walk away from. It captures you, steals your soul and only offers it back to you upon your agreement to return.

There's a palpable energy here as tourists craned their necks, their eyes wide with the kind of wonder usually reserved for religious experiences. Languages blended into a symphony of tones and sing-song phrases. People strolled about the open piazza, shuffling in every direction, each with their own plan, their own agenda, perhaps just living for Il Dolce Far Niente; the sweetness of doing nothing. Chaos and order could be found in every direction in the waning day. I sat for a moment on marble steps that held a trillion stories beneath them. I took the moment to linger and breathe in the majestic and chaotic interlude that swept before me. I made my own bargain with the ancient edifice that towered overhead. A bargain made for a thousand lifetimes. I watched and marveled at the beautiful chaos of people. A Japanese family meticulously framed photos, capturing memories against the backdrop of time-worn marble. A group of American students laughed, the echoes of their youthful exuberance bouncing off the ancient stones. An old Italian man, his weathered face creased with a smile that suggested he's seen it all, gazed at the Pantheon as if seeing it for the first time even though he probably walked by it nearly every day on his leisurely stroll around this Eternal city. It was a melting pot of humanity, united by a shared reverence for this architectural masterpiece. A rising behemoth that has transitioned from Pagan to Christian beliefs, yet safe guarded the remains of artists, composers, architects and kings and preserved a marvel for people of all religions and beliefs everywhere.

The sky overhead exploded and transitioned to a canvas of twilight blues and purples, the Pantheon’s grandeur taking on a new persona right in front of my very eyes. Street lamps flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the piazza, romanticizing the edges of the edifice. This was the magical moment. The timeless moment that films would capture again and again and again. The alchemical energy and invisible electricity that permeated through the very heart of this ancient city. Couples found themselves drawn into intimate closeness, their silhouettes framed against the grand old building. Street performers seized their moments in the transition between blistering heat and gentle warm breezes, the strumming of a guitar or the haunting melody of a violin adding a soundtrack to the scene that transitioned from one Italian classic to the next depending on which direction you turned and which sound reverberated off of what structure. It was as if the Pantheon, in its silent dominance, orchestrated the evening’s rhythm. A grandiose maestro of the eternal city and a medieval conductor of the Piazza della Rotonda.

Gently, I eased my attention from the living painting in front of me and turned towards the direction where my dinner was patiently lying in wait for me to arrive. Rome’s culinary siren call is vibrant, enticing, alluring, strong and promising indulgence of another kind to envelope you into a sea of culinary discovery. I walked away from the moving spectacle, the chatter of the crowd fading into the background, replaced by the anticipation of a meal to come. I took one last look over my shoulder, one gentle sweep, stealing a glance, wetting my appetite and imprinting the image that remained behind me in my mind. The Pantheon, steadfast and serene, serenaded by the symphony of a Roman night, the flavor of this moment that will always linger as the most satisfying appetizer to the feast that is the Caput Mundi, the Capital of the World, the Eternal City — Rome.

Stepping through the doorway of Armando al Pantheon is like walking into a harmonious symphony of aromas and sounds that only Rome can conduct with the proper maestro in place. The ancient Pantheon was left behind, just to the left outside the front door, a stone’s throw from the front step and a silent guardian to centuries of culture and cuisine that move around the stoic structure. Inside, the restaurant’s tranquil scenery was a stark contrast to the packed crowds of people in the piazza all vying to enter the ancient structure or to acquire the perfect selfie. The seating for the restaurant was small and intimate, giving the dining experience a feel of eating at home with a private chef and attentive personal service. Knowing that a reservation would be required to dine in the evening, I of course arrived without one, a cardinal sin in this temple of gastronomy. Although the restaurant was fully booked, Roman hospitality intimately prevailed. With a warm smile and a nod, after I exhausted what little Italian I knew to convince the maître d’ that I was happy to take any table at any time, he was able to squeeze me in for an intimate table for one. I don’t know if it was my feeble attempt to use my Italian or if the gatekeeper simply took pity on me as I longingly stared into the kitchen over his shoulder at the back of the establishment, the end result justified the struggle and I was granted an evening of dining in a temple of Italian gastronomy situated in an ancient piazza rich in history and culture.

The white linen table clothes were pressed firm, flat on the table tops and were all lying in wait as I was led to my table, my anticipation building for the evening with each passing step. I walked past dining patrons all locked in conversation, some just sitting down at their tables, some enjoying their drinks and others that were enjoying their meals. They smiled and nodded at me as I walked past them as though passing along a note of approval for my choice in dining this evening and welcoming me into their shared dining room. The stage was set as I approached my table set for one. My waiter gently placed the menu and wine list effortlessly in front of me as I longingly stroked the rough pages with my eyes, carefully selecting the evening’s tasting.

I slid into my seat, feeling the history of this old Roman establishment seep through the white tablecloth and the dark wood and white walls around me. The aroma of fresh pasta and aged cheeses hung in the air, a tantalizing promise of culinary delight. The scent of open bottles of wine gently lingered in the air, pulling at my tastebuds, luring me to try something new, something different, something local. The menu, a testament to tradition, offered a symphony of Roman classics—penne all’arrabbiata, rigatoni all’amatriciana, and spaghetti alla carbonara. Each dish a story, each bite, a journey through time, a Roman staple and a creation of love and attention to culture and tradition.

My waiter and I exchanged banter, my rusty Italian eliciting a chuckle and a friendly correction. As with many locals here, more than one language is spoken. My waiter just happened to have studied in Mexico City and spoke in Spanish as a second language. He smiled as he witnessed a grin of relief arch across my face as we instantly changed languages and communicated in perfect harmony. He recommended the house specialties, describing each with a flourish that made my mouth water and my decision all the harder. As we laughed and shared anecdotes, I felt the essence of Rome itself, its very beating heart. A city that lives and breathes through its food, where every meal was a celebration of life, love, and laughter. In that moment, under the spell of Armando al Pantheon's charm, I knew my evening would be nothing short of magical no matter what selection I made.

Knowing that I wanted to sample a bit of everything that evening and that I would most certainly be taking the leftovers for later indulgence, I decided to cast caution to the wind and try a bit of everything. I put in an order for penne all’arrabbiata, spaghetti alla gricia, rigatoni all’amatriciana and spaghetti alla carbonara. These were the staples of Roman cuisine. History on plate, culture and craft of generations of Italian cooking. For the wine, I decided to try something different. Scanning down the menu, I found a bottle of Gulfi Cerasuolo di Vittoria, a Sicilian bottle that my waiter promised would be an excellent pairing for my pasta rotational tasting adventure.

The pop of the cork was sharp, crisp and elegant, signaling the start of an evening that promised indulgence, a dive into exquisite pairings and a discovery of unknown flavors. The wine tumbled into my glass, releasing a symphony of scents that danced through the air, pulling me in to sample its mesmerizing aromas. I leaned in, catching whispers of vibrant red fruits mingling with the darker, more brooding undertones. The bouquet was a seductive blend of wild cherries and floral notes, a startling and fragrant prelude to what promised to be an unforgettable evening experience.

I lifted my glass, the deep ruby liquid catching the light and swirled it around with an almost hypnotic allure. It glistened with a promise of complexity and depth, a liquid jewel in my curled fingers. I eagerly brought the glass up to my lips, the aroma enveloped me, captured me. The dark red liquid was intense, rich, yet with a playful brightness. The first sip was a crescendo. It was a spontaneous burst of ripe strawberries and raspberries that quickly gave way to deeper, earthier flavors of blackberries and plums. Hints of wild cherry and a delicate floral finish rounded out the experience, leaving a lingering impression that was both exhilarating and comforting, like a long-lost friend found again, and deeply missed. This was more than wine in a glass; it was a story, a journey through Sicilian vineyards captured in a single, perfect, elegant sip.

I waited patiently for my dishes to arrive one after the other as I slowly panned around the room and enjoyed my wine while witnessing the Roman dining experience. I watched patrons anxiously diving in to their dishes, their conversations, animated, their smiles telling the tail of a meal well-crafted. And just as I raised my glass to my lips again, peering through the crimson liquid, the penne all’arrabbiata arrived, steaming on my plate. This classic dish was like a punch to the palate, unapologetically fiery and brimming with life. Each al dente penne was a vessel of incendiary charm, the heat from the chili peppers igniting a slow, deliberate burn that lingered seductively, whispering along my lips and coating my tongue in wonder. The sauce, a vibrant deep red, clung fiercely to the ridged pasta, seeping into every crevice with its garlicky, spicy, deep embrace. Each bite was both a dance of pleasure and pain, a testament to the raw, unfiltered beauty that was Roman cuisine. It was the kind of dish that demanded concentration, forcing you to live in the moment, savoring each fiery mouthful as if it were your very last.

I took a breath from my fiery indulgence as the next dish was gently eased in front of me, pushed into place by my bilingual server. Placing my plate of penne all’arrabbiata to the side, I took another sip of my Sicilian red, cleansing my palate, and turned my attention to the plate of the spaghetti alla gricia waiting patiently for my attention. This dish was a minimalist marvel that showcased the sublime elegance of gentle simplicity. The guanciale, rendered to crispy perfection, provided a salty, fatty counterpoint to the delicate strands of pasta, which were swathed in a glossy veil of Pecorino Romano that coated the elegantly hand-crafted strands. The cheese melted into the pasta, creating a creamy, savory coating that bonded to the gluten like a whisper. Each twirled forkful was a symphony of textures and flavors; the crunch of the guanciale playing against the smooth, rich pasta. There was a rustic, primal satisfaction to this dish, a reminder that the best things in life often come from the humblest of ingredients and the most simple of recipes.

Just when my plate of spaghetti alla gricia fully captured my complete attention, the next serving of Rigatoni all’amatriciana arrived at my table, sliding into place and engaging my full attention. This dish was a hearty, powerful affair, bursting with the robust flavors of tomato, guanciale, and Pecorino Romano. The rigatoni, with their sturdy, tubular form, were the perfect canvas for the rich, tangy sauce that slide slowly down each homemade tube. Each piece of pasta was generously coated, the sauce infiltrating its hollow center, creating an explosion of flavor with every lingering bite. The guanciale added a smoky, meaty depth, its crispy edges providing a delightful contrast to the tender pasta that curled around it. The Pecorino Romano, sharp and salty, tied everything together, creating a dish that was comforting yet complex, familiar yet always surprising with every bite.

As I was reaching my limit, a point of fullness where room for more was weighed with how many hours I would need to walk off the guilt-free calories, the spaghetti alla carbonara, the final dish in my quadfecta arrived at my side and was gracefully placed onto the tablecloth in front of me. This pasta was a classic, a culinary masterpiece that epitomized the art of pasta making. A dish rich in history and a vibrant connection between America and Italy through the heartfelt yearning of the GI’s that fought in Italy in Wold War Two. The spaghetti, perfectly al dente, twirled effortlessly around my fork, each strand glistened with a silky, golden sauce made from eggs, Pecorino Romano, and a generous helping of black pepper. The guanciale, crisp and flavorful, added a luxurious, smoky richness that elevated the dish and firmly held my tastebuds to each and every flavor. The creaminess of the sauce, achieved without a drop of cream, was a testament to the skill and tradition behind this classic Roman dish. Eating spaghetti alla carbonara at Amando al Pantheon was an experience that transcended mere sustenance; it was a journey through the heart and soul of Italian cuisine, a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, and a guilty pleasure for an evening of intense aromas, flavors and culinary history.

There was something poetic about finishing my glass of Gulfi Cerasuolo di Vittoria while sitting at Armando al Pantheon, after I finished an incredible meal, nestled in the warm embrace of Rome, the Eternal City. The wine, a deep ruby nectar, captured the essence of Sicily—wild and untamed yet refined and storied. It complimented the rich history of flavor, the journey of culinary tradition that captivated my entire evening. I took my last sip, feeling the sun-drenched vineyards whispering through the tannins in my glass, a reminder of the land's rugged beauty and the hands that nurtured it. The restaurant, a sanctuary of culinary tradition, hummed with the cadence of clinking glasses and murmured conversations, each sound was a testament to the joy of communal dining.

In front of me, a tapestry of humanity unfolded all evening. Couples leaned in close, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight and the room around them. They shared secrets and laughter that would linger long after the plates were cleared and the tables were turned. Families gathered, their animated gestures painting the air with stories and memories of their day, shared stories over shared plates of pasta and tradition. Tourists, wide-eyed and eager, savored each bite as if they were tasting history itself. It was a living, breathing tableau of life’s simple pleasures, where food became the common language that transcended barriers, languages, points of view and created commonality. The waitstaff navigated this symphony with the grace of seasoned conductors, seamlessly weaving through the tables, ensuring every need was met.

Behind it all, the kitchen was a vibrant theater of organized chaos. Flames dancing, knives flashing, and the air was thick with the aroma of simmering sauces and fresh herbs, meats and pastries, wine and liquor. The chefs, focused and intense, moved with the precision of dancers, each step a choreographed part of the culinary ballet that they performed every night, unseen to a crowd of people who marveled at their culinary creations. It was a reminder that great food was born from passion, from hard work, from a labor of love that culminated in the dishes that graced our tables all evening long. As the last drop of wine touched my parted lips, I was struck by the interconnectedness of it all—vineyards to glass, kitchen to table, strangers to friends. Here, in this moment, life was rich, the evening was full, and everything was deeply satisfying.