The Scents of Sunday

By Patricia Winton

Yesterday was the official first day of spring at my house because I left the doors to my terrace open all day. I marked it by doing what my Italian neighbors call Easter cleaning—that is, spring cleaning. I worked at a leisurely pace by doing a task (or part of one) then retiring to the terrace to read a chapter (Elizabeth Zelvin’s excellent Voyage of Strangers). Sitting on the terrace gave me an olfactory tour of my neighbors’ homes.

On this first day of daylight savings time in Italy, I charted my neighbors’ waking hours by the aroma of espresso wafting through the Rome air. I imagined that I could hear the hiss as steam rose in each caffeteria (the stove-top espresso maker that graces Italian kitchens) and the gurgle of the last drop of coffee entering the pot. People rose at different times throughout the morning, and the coffee ritual repeated itself with each awakening. I drank my own cup before any of my neighbors stirred, and found myself making a second round before too long.

After placing all movable furniture (chairs, small tables) onto non-movable pieces (bed, sofa), I returned to the terrace for another chapter. This time, someone was roasting peppers; the tang tickled my tongue as I contemplated what dish the cook planned. Nice fat noodles with sausage and peppers, perhaps. Or a very traditional side dish combining the peppers with roasted eggplant and zucchini. Whatever, it made me wish I had more than half a red pepper in my fridge.

Retuning to the matter at hand indoors, I plugged in the vacuum. After sweeping through half the apartment, I went back to the terrace. This time, I sniffed someone baking a chocolate cake. That’s a rare smell. Usually for Sunday pranzo, people visit a pastry shop—in years past, one of the few businesses open on Sunday. Traditionally, the treats from a pastry shop are wrapped in paper (proclaiming the identity of the shop) and tied with a ribbon. It common on Sunday mornings to see people scurrying through the streets with this precious cargo. But this week, a luncheon table in my building carried a homemade cake.

Finished the vacuuming. When I retired to the terrace this time, I was blasted with the heady scent of that most traditional of Sunday dishes—chicken roasted with potatoes and seasoned with rosemary and garlic. My fingers slipped over the chicken skin as I imagined rubbing it with olive oil. The prickle of the rosemary needles tickled by fingers in my imagination. Alas, while my cupboard held potatoes and garlic and my terrace a pot of rosemary, I had no chicken.

After being enticed by the scents of my neighbors’ kitchens, I entered mine and made a sandwich from leftover pork roast (studded with garlic and rosemary) accompanied by a glass of freshly squeezed blood orange juice. No aroma to reveal myself to the neighbors. I settled on the terrace again, munching my sandwich and getting back to Diego and Rachel (Elizabeth Zelvin’s characters).

Hanging Out in the Local Bar

The Morning Crew

            There’s nothing quite like an Italian bar. It’s a community center: a place to eat or drink, to meet friends, to read the paper, to sit and dream, even to write a blog post. Only a small portion of the profits come from alcohol!

            I have a new favorite, Caffe Paradisio, around the corner from where I live. They have free wi-fi, and I have been dropping by with my little computer a couple of times a day since I returned to Rome. In the morning I’m there to check email, Facebook and Twitter from the U.S. while I enjoy a cup of cappuccino. The cappuccino costs ninety euro cents. If I don’t order a pastry, they bring me a small plate with a few cookies. And it’s perfectly okay to order just a glass of water.

            It’s ten a.m., and I’ve been sitting here for about an hour. A constant stream of people flows through. A man with his dog sat at the table near me, reading the newspaper the bar keeps for customers.  Several couples have been here, taking a quick coffee and pastry standing at the bar before going to work. A woman who works at a nearby pizzeria came in to pick up espresso and cappuccino to take back to the restaurant. The barista prepared the drinks—in real cups—and sent her off with a tray, each cup covered with foil to keep the coffee hot. She’ll bring back the dirties later. My hairdresser, whose shop is next door, came in waving at me, and a woman’s studying English sat near me doing her homework.
         Espresso and cappuccino generally cost a dollar more or less, so it's usual for one in a party to treat the others. I just overheard a man asking his two companions what they wanted. Each said espresso, but he tried to offer additional things. Caffe machiato is espresso with a splash of steamed milk, for example. Or a highly sweetened whipped cream might be added to the cappuccino or the espresso. He also offered pastry, but they declined. People don't linger over their coffee either. The threesome I mentioned have already gone, and the waiter has collected their cups. They had an animated conversation, and the host paid about three dollars for the session. It's this rapid turnover that makes a bar profitable, so they can indulge someone like me who parks.

            Many bars offer complete lunch. This one doesn’t, but on a nearby corner there is another one where you can get a choice of pasta dishes, meat and fish, several vegetables, and dessert. All the food is wedged on platters behind a glass case. You make your selection, pay the cashier, and the food is brought to your table. I recommend bar lunches to travelers because they are fast, usually cooked from scratch, and always good.

            In the afternoon, I’ll be back here again. I may order a Campari soda or a nonalcoholic drink called “bitter.”  These drinks, whether alcoholic or not, cost the same—€2.50. With my drink, the staff will bring snacks at no extra charge.  These will include some form of chips, a small plate of tiny sandwiches, a little bowl of nuts, and perhaps a savory pastry or cheese.  If I’ve ordered iced tea instead, the snacks will be fewer, but will include some cookies. These little snacks accompanying drinks are commonplace in Italy. A few-not-so-friendly places may offer only a small bowl of chips, but the tradition calls for ample snacks.

            The bars offer other services as well. You can get lottery tickets, top up your cell phone credit, buy bus tickets or a candy bar. And it’s a quick place to buy a bottle of milk when you run out. Need directions to a local sightseeing point? Stop by a bar. Want to have a quick business meeting. Take your client for an espresso. Looking for a place to wait before cinema tickets go on sale? You’ll find other moviegoers at the local bar having a Coke.

            The staff takes pride in knowing the customers’ preferences. After only a couple of visits they remember that I prefer a slice of orange instead of lemon in my Campari and that I want brown sugar with my cappuccino. And because I linger, they always take away my used crockery or glasses and bring me a large glass of water—with ice and lemon.

            Caffe Paradisio has flat screens mounted high on the walls where music videos usually play, but at soccer time they are tuned in to the game, and it’s standing room only for Rome’s rabid fans. A small room to the back houses some slot machines. The sound of coins dropping when a player wins can drown out the music.

            Children are an integral part of Italy’s bar scene. A mother with a baby in a stroller comes in for her caffeine fix each morning. All the patrons speak to the baby, bending to greet her. In the afternoon, the barista and the cashier have their young daughter ensconced at a corner table, drawing pictures or playing with toys. Customers know her by name and stop to have a conversation. And frequently, the afternoon waiter has his toddler sleeping in the back room. On Saturdays, I see grandparents with grandchildren in tow for a weekend outing. At some point they’ll stop by a bar for ice cream, juice or the ubiquitous Coke.

            One of the real luxury services offered by bars is delivery. Businesses often call the local bar with a drink order (espresso, cappuccino, juice, etc.) In a short time, a delivery arrives, in real cups and glasses. The cashier will have prepared the bill; then the waiter will scurry off with the order and return with the money. Later he (or she) will amble back to pick up the empties. I fantasize about having a cup of cappuccino delivered to my home every morning while I’m still in my jammies, but then I’d miss the show.

           

The Afternoon Crew