Rome. The Secret Path Through Via Del Corso To Dine With The Locals

Rome had embraced me completely, accepted me for who I was, and given me a hearty thumbs up. Tonight, I had tasted the real Rome, and it was delicious.

The evening sun dipped below the monolithic horizon as it cast long shadows across the ancient cobblestones of Rome. I was standing in the very center of the chaotic whirlwind that was known as Piazza Venezia. The massive white monument to Victor Emmanuel II loomed over the square as an imposing white monstrosity, its bleached marble a stark contrast to the warm, amber glow of the streetlights just flickering to life with the disappearing daylight. It was a behemoth of a building. Out of place. Out of rhythm with its ancient surroundings. Affectionately; or not so affectionately, it was nicknamed "the wedding cake" by locals who seemed to regard it with a mixture of pride and mild disdain. However now, it was a reluctantly accepted landmark, a part of this ancient city of marble and stone, forever dominating its endless landscape. The crisp evening air blew across my face and along the narrow cobblestone streets. The breeze carried the faintest hint of an impending winter and the faint aroma of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor who was already prepping for the holiday fanfare yet to come. I took a long, deep breath, letting the pure essence of Rome fill my lungs, taking in the scent of this amazing city, before setting off down the famous Via del Corso. This old street was the main artery of Rome, pumping life and energy through the heart of the Eternal City. Tonight however, this splendid street was transformed into a glittering wonderland tunnel of holiday cheer, with Christmas lights strung overhead like a canopy of twinkling stars, swaying gently in the cool night gusts.

I made my way down the bustling thoroughfare, completely swept up in a river of humanity that ebbed and flowed like the tides of the Mediterranean Sea. The famous Italian passeggata was already in full swing, that nightly ritual where it seemed the entire city poured out onto the streets to see and be seen, to taste, to drink and to just simply to be present in a fleeting holiday moment. Families strolled arm in arm out for the evening taking in Rome at night. Children darted between groups of people, cupping cones of gelato, their grins covered in the famous Italian ice cream. Couples walked close holding hands, whispering secrets to each other meant only for themselves to hear, their private moments, captured in a city older than memory. It was a beautiful chaos. It was a living, breathing play of human interaction that made me feel simultaneously lost and found all at once. The shop windows along Via del Corso were ablaze with light, each one a stage set for the latest fashions or gadgets that promised to make life just a little bit more fabulous. I passed by one designer store after another. Fendi. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. Ferragamo. Countless storefronts and temples of Italian style, all with new and creative windows designed to catch my eye, draw me in, and make me spend euro after euro on items that I never knew I needed. I watching as tourists and locals alike pressed their noses against the glass, dreaming of what could be, longing to smell and feel the leather of handmade luxury items. It was consumerism at its most seductive, tied in tinsel and bows for the holiday season. Liquid crack, wrapped in leather and dreams, hopes and aspirations.

The crowd ahead of me began to thicken as I heard the first strains of music floating in the air the further that I moved down the street. I approached Piazza di San Marcello, and was greeted by the sight of a massive group of locals and tourists all surrounding a lone figure. He was dressed in a dark suit and pulled at his violin as the most exquisite sounds reverberated across the piazza and over our captivated heads. A violinist stood in the center of this attentive crowd, his instrument tucked under his chin, coaxing out the haunting, classic melody of "Bella Ciao." The crowd was transfixed, swaying slightly, clapping furiously and excitedly as the revolutionary anthem filled the night air and reverberated off of the stone buildings around us. It was a moment of pure magic. The violinist's fingers danced across the strings, each note pulled at the heartstrings and the memories of all who were standing here, listening with wrapped enthusiasm. Quite suddenly, I discovered that I actually stopped walking. It was as if my feet decided on their own to pause and remind my brain that this was a performance worth listening to. I stood there, locked in unison with the crowd, clapping along and caught up in the collective emotion of the moment. It was pure joy, festive laughter and a magnificent reason to pause the world around me and focus in on this amazing moment in front of me. The final notes were pulled with gusto and replaced by thunderous applause from the surrounding patrons. Money was dropped into a hat. CDs were quickly sold and the violinist began to play anew. I reluctantly tore myself away from the impromptu concert and continue my stroll down Via del Corso, the music of “Game Of Thrones” just catching my ear as it faded away behind me.

Via del Corso seemed almost endless. The further I walked, the more the street became a marvelous performance of sights and sounds. Street performers set up shop at regular intervals, each one vying for attention and spare euros. A young man with a karaoke machine belted out a very enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, rendition of "Volare”. I shuffled past him as quickly as possible and strolled past an elderly gentleman coaxing melancholy tunes from an accordion that looked almost old as he did. Small crowds gathered around each performer. Something in each performance spoke to each patron in some way. A familiar tune, a familiar face, or maybe just a familiar moment gave each person or group pause to stop, to listen, to admire, to tip and to enjoy in their own way. Holiday shoppers weaved in and out of the crowd around me. Their arms were laden with bags bearing the names of high-end boutiques and local artisans. There was a certain type of frenzy to their movements. It was as if they're racing against time to find that perfect gift, for that perfect someone. I strolled by a group of teenagers who huddled around a street artist creating portraits with nothing more than a few piece of colored chalk and the sidewalk. Portrait after portrait was scrolled on the walkway, one after another in absolutely magnificent detail. The Mona Lisa. The Girl with a Pearl Earring. Each one rendered beautifully along the pavement. Hats placed in front of each piece were pouring over with euros as people who stopped to admire his work, and left something behind as a token of their appreciation. His work was stunning yet fleeting. In the morning, these works of art that took hours to produce would be washed away by a sudden early morning drizzle. This was the beautiful madness that was Rome at night—alive, vibrant, and utterly captivating.

I turned the corner onto Via Del Frezza as the echoing of tourist chatter, performers, foot traffic and souvenir hawkers slowly faded away in the distance, replaced by the gentle hum of authentic Roman life. The narrow street was lined with weathered buildings and dotted with locals going about their evening, enjoying the city in their own way. It was quiet here, yet this small street sat a mere block away from the main noisy thoroughfare. I was here to enjoy an authentic piece of Rome. A hidden part of of this miraculous city. I was here to hide amongst the locals and for a brief moment, pretend I was one of them. I stepped inside the front doors of Frezza Cucina De Coccio and was immediately enveloped by a wall of sound. Clinking of glasses. Rapid-fire Italian conversations. Sizzles of pans from the open kitchen. The air was thick with the aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and something indefinably, intoxicatingly, and even most simply— Roman. I scanned the room as I waited for my turn to speak with the hostess. Instantly, one thing became abundantly clear: I was the only non-Italian in sight. And frankly, that was exactly what I wanted. And specifically, why I came here for dinner.

The hostess smiled genuinely and greeted me warmly in Italian. I nodded, holding up one finger and with a sheepish smile said “Perdono. Non ho una prenotazione.” Meaning that I didn’t have a reservation. Not surprisingly, the restaurant was fully book for the evening. My welcoming hostess, with a single glance towards a lone corner table, a slight bite of her lower lip, a gesture, sent a questioning yell towards a server across a loud dining room filled with a multitude of conversations. A nod, a gesture, and a welcoming shrug told me to follow her quickly if I wanted to eat this evening. She led me through the packed dining room, weaving between tables, sliding between patrons locked in intense conversations, dodged laughter and wild hand gestures, and expertly navigated me to my destination: a small table squeezed into a corner, where I found myself wedged between a boisterous family celebration and a pair of elderly gentlemen engaged in a heated debate about life. That, my dear readers, is true Roman hospitality rolled up in a smiling and welcoming hostess. When there isn’t room, room is made for you. You are welcomed. A table is set for you. And there is always a seat, no matter how busy, how packed, how booked. There is always a place for you.

I squeezed into the tiny bistro table, apologizing to my neighbors as I gently brushed against them. The men briefly paused their debate to give me warm, welcoming smiles followed by the most gracious of waves and nods. The restaurant was small, packed, with patrons sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder. But the feeling was warm, almost like crowding into a small dining room table at someone’s home. My hostess handed me the menu written only in Italian. I apparently was a terrible poker player, because one look at face and my first reaction to the menu spilled the beans. She instantly knew; I was an American imposter sitting in a sea of native speakers and locals. She bent down and leaned closer so that I could hear her over the dull roar of the restaurant and began apologizing for the lack of an English menu. There was that Roman hospitality again. I was the foreigner, and she was apologizing to me for a lack of English, in a Roman restaurant. In the middle of Rome. In the middle of Italy. In the middle of Europe. I smiled and shook my hand back and forth gently. I nodded and said “Non preoccuparti. Starò bene.” She smiled, but I knew that she was on to me. Although, I did get a grin and a welcoming thumbs up from one of the older gentlemen to my left. And suddenly, I knew that I was exactly where I needed to be.

I perused the menu, but with no bars on my mobile phone and no evidence of WiFi in the restaurant, I was on my own. Google translate would not be able to help in this situation. I decided to tackle the important obstacle first then. The wine list. The regions I knew. The varietals I was completely fluent in. This, in my humble opinion, was the easy part. My eyes scanned down the list as I completely bypassed the whites and rosés; please don’t judge me, and fell right upon the reds. It was cold and I was definitely going to order a warm pasta dish with red sauce to complement my selection. Tuscany. Umbria. Sardinia. Vento. Friuli-Venezia Giulia. Molise. The list went on, and on, and on. I knew these regions. I had the opportunity to sample some amazing bottles from all of them. I had also sampled some no-so-amazing bottles as well in the past. So, the pressure was on to find something extremely enjoyable, and something different perhaps. I noticed from the corner of my eye that the two gentlemen had paused in their engaging debate and began to eye me with moderate curiosity. They examined me with mild amusement as if to see if my choice would match their initial perception of me; the Californian with a love of local establishments that made me work my rusty Italian for my supper. The pressure was definitely on. However, I instantly zeroed in on a bottle of the Domas Vini Dvctvs Primitivo from Puglia. I knew it once that I had made the correct decision because when my server raised her eyebrows, and I managed to shout over the roar of the patrons around me, she smiled, nodded and trotted off to grab the bottle. I even earned another thumbs up from both gentlemen to my left at this point and a vocal affirmation of “Bravo!” from one of them as he raised his glass in praise of, and a toast to my decision.

My server returned and displayed my chosen bottle. It was heavy, thick and dark. She twisted the corkscrew into the top, and holding the bottle firmly in the air, pulled the cork out with one swift motion, placing it in front of me to examine. I raised the cork to my nose and inhaled deeply as she gently poured a small splash into my glass to taste for my approval. Even in the crowded din of the restaurant, the aroma of oak and cherry wafted through the air, and smashed me across the face in the best way possible. All at once, I didn’t know if it was the cork or what was emanating from my glass, or perhaps it was both, but the powerful aroma immediately turned heads and caused nostrils to flare appreciatively nearly three to four tables over. Even my gentleman neighbors turned both of their heads at once, set their glasses down, opened their eyes wide and exclaimed "Caspita!” I took a long, deep, draw of the ruby-red liquid in my glass between my lips, knowing instantly that I was in for something immensely special and unique. Massive notes of black cherries, wild plums, black mulberries and blueberries exploded in my mouth, and just in the distance, there were haunting notes of cinnamon, tobacco and hints of centuries-old bark. My server knew immediately that I was pleased. Actually, she could probably tell that I was having a moment with my bottle, but I still needed to order dinner to pair with this amazing find of a wine.

I continued to savor my glass of wine, as my server waited patiently for my choices. My eyes wandered around the menu. Everything screamed of authenticity. There absolutely no tourist-pandering spaghetti and meatballs anywhere to be found. For goodness sake, trippa was even on the menu. It was a small note, but definitely reaffirmed that I was in the place that I needed to be this evening. This was real Roman cuisine. It was the kind of food that has sustained this city for a millennia. For my appetizer, I narrowed in quickly on the Carciofi alla giudia—Jewish-style artichokes, a true Roman classic. For my main course, there was really only one choice for the evening; the spaghetti all'amatriciana. This classic Roman pasta dish was a perfect balance of sweet, salty, and spicy flavors all in one bowl and was a testament to the power of simplicity in Italian cuisine. My server smiled, took my Italian menu and my order, and navigated the crowded room to get my choices to the kitchen. My neighbors gave me a synchronized head nod and raised their glasses, which I was only too happy to toast along with them. Not only did they approve of my sections, but I think that they might have just accepted me as an honorary citizen of Rome. Well… maybe.

I sipped slowly, gazing around the room as I waited for my meal to arrive. Romans from all parts of the city surrounded me and were equally enjoying their evening out with family and with friends. Parents met up with other parents, tucking into their pastas as their children all sat around, chatting and eating dinner together. Old friends met up for the evening, reminiscing on days, long past and digging in to their wine and their savory meals. Young lovers spent an evening out, taking time with one another as the crowded dining room of Frezza seemingly disappeared around them all at once. Before my eyes could even wander back to my own table, my server placed my artichoke starter in front of me, and shuffled off again with a smile. The artichoke’s smell was absolutely divine. Centered on my plate, it was golden and crispy, the outer leaves were caramelized, giving way to a very tender heart. It was a simple preparation. Fried in olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper, it was a classic Roman dish that allowed the natural flavor of the artichoke to shine through. It was a dish that spoke of Roman ingenuity. Of making something extraordinary out of something completely ordinary. And, it was a brief glance into my own history and the impact that the Jewish culture had on Rome and all those who lived here. The pairing of the carciofi alla giudia with the DVCTVS primitivo was a match made in vinicultural heaven. The wine's acidity sliced through the richness of the fried artichoke. The primitivo’s subtle fruity notes complemented the vegetable's complex earthy flavors. The tannins in the wine also provided a perfect counterpoint to the crispy texture of the dish. It was a match made in culinary indulgence, and a perfect example of how good food and good wine, when paired properly, can elevate each other to create new flavors, textures and leave lasting memories of the extra special experience.

I finished the last bites of artichoke, thoroughly lamenting the past vestiges of this amazing dish. I took a selfish moment to pan around the restaurant and admire the sheer chaos of the dining room. I was swept up in the atmosphere of the place, completely absorbed by the visual spectacle and the absolute madness of the whirlwind of energy around me. The conversations echoed off the walls and ebbed and flowed like the tides of the sea, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional emphatic hand gesture for emphasis. And, while I couldn't understand many of the words and the meaning of the conversations that bounced back and forth, I felt embraced by the warmth and conviviality of it all. Every laugh. Every new mouthful of joy. Every exclamation of surprise and infatuation over a new dish. Every surprise at a new taste or a new flavor. And especially every explicative uttered with the sip of a new wine tasted, loved, noted and ordered again. I may have been the only American in the general vicinity, but I felt far from alone. There was a sense of community here that was palpable. It was a shared passion for good food and good company that was evident in every interaction, discussion and engagement. As I continued to marvel at my surroundings, my stealthy server managed to slip my pasta dish in front of me, right under my nose before I even knew that she arrived. And, before I could even register that she was here, she was gone, back at another table, and then headed to the kitchen. I stared down at a plate of absolute culinary debauchery. The aroma was overwhelming and I inhaled deeply, taking in every luscious flavor of this incredible pasta. I glanced over at the two gentleman, who were still locked in conversation, still drinking their wine and noted that they had started on their third bottle, the empty other two bottles were still sitting like lone monoliths at the corner of their table. They glanced over at me once again, and I received yet another approving thumbs up from the gentleman on my immediate left; who definitely now knew that I had the palate of a true local Roman. I grabbed my bottle and offered both of my friendly neighbors a pour so that we could taste together and I could thank the both of them for their genuine encouragement of me. They both declined in unison, but with my slight coaxing and a few choice words of “Sì, sì. Per favore. Piacere mio!” They willingly obliged and we were toasting within seconds. I knew instantly that they enjoyed the Dvctvs primitivo due in part to their raised eyebrows of surprise, their exclamation of yummy noises, and the almost now expected thumbs up of approval, this time from the both of them.

I turned my attention back to the spaghetti all'amatriciana sitting in front of me, which was pulling at all of my senses as it continued to waft its intoxicating aroma up towards me. The spaghetti was perfectly al dente, each strand coated in a vibrant red sauce that clung for dear life to the pasta with gripping and loving tenacity. Crispy bits of guanciale; cured pork cheek, were scattered throughout the bowl and created bursts of salty, porky goodness that made me dive in completely. The sauce itself was a marvel – San Marzano tomatoes cooked down to a rich intensity, with just the right amount of creamy texture from the pecorino romano cheese. As I twirled the first forkful of pasta, I paused to take another sip of the DVCTVS primitivo. The pairing was nothing short of sublime. The wine's fruit-forward profile complemented the sweetness of the tomatoes, while its acidity cut through the richness of the guanciale and created a marriage of flavor that could never be separated. The spice notes in the wine echoed along with the creaminess of the pecorino romano cheese, creating a harmony of flavors that danced across my palate, making me wish that I had a endless plate of this dish. Sadly though, as I neared the bottom of my plate, I realized I had also neared the bottom of my wine glass. With a mixture of sadness and satisfaction, I savored the last few sips of the DVCTVS primitivo as it lingered in my glass, on the tip of my tongue, and in my nose. This bottle of wine had been the perfect companion for this meal and a perfect pairing to the entire evening, which included the food. I looked around the still-packed restaurant, and I saw tables of friends lingering over the last bites of their meals. I saw families engaged in animated discussions. I witnessed couples leaning in ever closer over candlelit tables, and friends sharing an evening together with no agenda or rush to be anywhere else but here, in this place and in this moment. This was the true Rome. The real Roman experience. Not the Rome of guidebooks and tour buses. Not the Rome of the cinema or the food shows. Instead it was the Rome of everyday life, of simple pleasures, of food that feeds the body and the soul. And most importantly, it was an experience that could make a person fall in love with the food, the place and the company.

I raised my hand and nodded gently, catching my server’s attention. made a square with my fingers and mouthed “Il conto, per favore” so that she could make out my gesture across the loud dining room. My server smiled and nodded that she understood and approached my table with a smile. Her hands were folded and there was no expected slip of paper that itemized my meal and featured the “bad news”, otherwise known as the total due for my extraordinary meal. She politely informed me that the two gentleman sitting next to me had paid for my meal in full and settled my bill. The look of confusion was evident on my face so she clarified that they, the two gentlemen sitting next to me, really enjoyed watching an American willingly immerse himself in a local Roman establishment, bravely order off of Italian language only menu, and fully diving in to an amazing meal. She also explained to me that they also greatly appreciated me sharing a glass of the DVCTVS primitivo with them and exposing them to something new that they hadn’t tried before, as it was rare for them to have a foreigner open them up to something new in their own country. Especially something that they enjoyed so much. She pointed to the two men departing the restaurant, their coats already bundled around them as they stepped out into the cold. One of the gentlemen turned quickly in my direction for the briefest of moments, shot a glance directly at me, and held high what was clearly a thumbs up.

I stepped out into the Roman cold and onto Via Del Frezza feeling as though I had experienced something completely different in this amazing city. The street, with its weathered buildings and uneven cobblestones, was silent and still as a distant rumble of noise continued to flow from a block away, just off of Via Del Corso. I made my way back to the main thoroughfare, the sounds of the city gradually growing and leading me back to the throng of tourists and mayhem. Day-tripper and travelers with maps and selfie sticks began to appear as I rounded the corner, but they seemed somehow separate from me now. Performers were still scattered long the street, and continued belting familiar tunes and playing for show and for tips. I had tasted the real Rome tonight. I had been embraced by Rome’s warmth and hospitality, if only for a brief moment this evening. I shared a meal with locals from all corners of this great city, even if I was dining alone, surrounded by the warmth of strangers who somehow became just a bit more recognizable. I strolled down Via Del Corso with familiarity. I walked along the lit path, between tourists and crowds of people who still out for the evening, enjoying a chilly, holiday night in the Eternal City. Rome had embraced me completely, accepted me for who I was, and given me a hearty thumbs up. Tonight, I had tasted the real Rome, and it was delicious.