Above: Pepper for cacio pepe
There are too many new ristoranti in Rome that don’t know a pizza from a piazza. I remember when we used to come here, mama and papa would bring me tidbits of this or that—bistecca alla Fiorentina, for example—or mama would get inspired (as she is daily) to make pasta fresca with a sauce of porcini or artichokes or even just something as simple as cacio pepe, one of Rome’s great dishes (ground pepper and grated cacio, a wonderful young, slightly salty semi-soft cheese made near Rome, and all you have to do is grate some cacio, grind some pepper and boil the pasta.
Then mama drains the pasta, leaving a bit of water in the pot and puts the pasta back in the pot along with the cheese and pepper and tosses it all very quickly before serving.
Mama uses a touch of olive oil, the same touch she gives me when I have left my food and only licked up the part that feels like meat Jello, and then I finish off my food immediately.
But one day she tried to fool me with olive oil that was NOT from the farm belonging to the owner of the trattoria downstairs, Il Buco, and I was NOT fooled.
Kitties know their olive oil and when she finally dribbled a few drops of the oil I love over my seemingly inedible dried up food, I ate the whole thing. That oil is why my coat is so smooth and shiny.
And while we’re at it, why is my pelt called a ‘coat’? When owners put those silly things on their pets, that’s a coat (often plaid, Burberry, for example, or bright colors—colors kitties or those other animals who bark and sniff every street corner indescriminately would never choose), but what I have over my bones and flesh is my skin, my pelt and without it I would be a puddle of cat-Jello!!
So we are sticking with our old trattorie like La Pigna, or Fortunato, or even dar Filettaro, where you can get fried cod and anchovies with butter and nice simple wine that goes down easily (of course, I do NOT drink, but oh, that fish—crispy and golden and light—a kitty’s dream).
So I guess my “kitty”bags will contain the same old same old, but give me a nice little tidbit of bacalá fritta and I know I am finally at home in my Roma (even if I am French).
