Everybody! (to the tune of "These Are a Few of My Favourite Things")

Pizza, tomatoes and buff mozzarella

All taste so good to this travelling fella

Fresh bread to dip in an E-V-O-O

These are just some of the reasons to go.

Umbricelli: Until we sat down to dinner at the la Palomba restaurant in Orvieto, I’d never even heard of umbricelli. And once I returned home, I was flabbergasted when even no one on staff at an Ottawa Nicastro’s Specialty Italian food store had ever heard of it either.

For non-Italians, it’s probably best described as “fat spaghetti”, but that’s more of a simple physical description. Taste and texturewise, it comes across not so much as pasta as something more akin to spaetzle, the eggy side dish of noodles or mini-dumplings that you often find in German-themed restaurants.

Oddly enough, the two times I had it in Italy, it was similar in length to traditional spaghetti, despite the fact that most websites illustrate a much more truncated, almost elbow macaroni-length version, for example this one.

And you might recall my earlier description of our day with The Zeppelin’s Chef Lorenzo Polegri in Orvieto and his book, in which he describes to a somewhat abashed woman TV host the traditional process of making it, where women rolled it by working it back and forth on their thighs. I can’t vouch for whether or not the la Palomba has a kitchen full of women furiously rolling out endless orders of the stuff (because it was a popular specialty of the house), but I can vouch for its deliciousness.

At the la Palomba, they serve it with a buttery, creamy, mildly peppery sauce that acts as the foundation for its intended topping. Hot on the heels of your plate’s arrival, a waiter shows up with a hand grater and what looks like a giant whole, large dried nutmeg. In fact, it’s a truffle (which I only knew because the menu described it as “topped with freshly grated truffle”) and it elevated the buttery pepperiness to an earthy state of the sublime. Having the luxury of receiving however much of the fungus you wish was an especially nice treat because it enabled me to actually taste it for the first time in my life.

I could go on, but a flood blogger named Elizabeth Minchilli has also been there and in this entry captures perfectly not only the gustatory experience, she has included a gorgeous photo of exactly how my own plate looked after the waiter had grated pretty much the entire truffle onto my order.

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I’ve done Limoncello in glowing terms an earlier update, but we also discovered another wonderful after-drink liqueur – and also in the la Palomba, on the recommendation of a waiter who named it first when I asked what after-dinner sipper he might recommend: Amaro.

Amaro is an “herbal liqueur” that is relatively new to the world of drink, with most commercial distillers using recipes that date back to the 19thC. It is a significantly fortified beverage that rings in at about 35% A.B.V. (Alcohol by Volume), probably three times what a typical bottle of wine will radiate. And it is unique. The LCBO (Liquor Control Board of Ontario) shelves it with Alpenbitters, Jagermeister and other similar products.

Here’s a brief description of what’s inside the bottle. It starts with grappa, which – depending on the brand – is then infused with any from a list of herbal ingredients a mile long that can include lemon balm, lemon verbena, juniper, anise, fennel, ginger, mint, thyme, sage, bay laurel, citrus peels, licorice, cinnamon, menthol, cardamom, saffron, elderflowers and some stuff I’ve never even heard of: gentian, angelica, cinchona, zedoary, wormwood. In a quest for flavour descriptions, you likely will run into words such as “medicinal” and “bitter”, neither of which is surprising since its earliest versions were sourced to monasteries and pharmacies.

In a better Amaro, the bitterness is very much there, but doesn’t overpower the taste and it is worth paying a few extra dollars for a well-balanced one. Which is not to condemn the less expensive, rawer ones. Like Calvados, Normandy’s apple-based tipple of choice, some people prefer the harsher and more pronounced characteristics of a less mature distillate.

Since our trip, I’ve never been without a bottle of Amaro in the household bar. I enjoy it best either neat or on the rocks, depending on my mood, and usually about an hour after dinner, which is about where a digestif works best.

No surprises that the very best Amaros we encountered were in Italy, including the la Palomba in Orvieto, where I first tasted it. But the LCBO does sell an excellent brand, and it is a product of Italy. Amaro Nonino, in fact, caused a beverage writer who blogs as “Italian wine geek” to wax absolutely rhapsodic about the drink, calling it “the delicate flower of distillates, [with] the showy ruffles and sweet, ethereal perfume of elixirs”. As a bonus, it comes boxed if you’re looking for a distinctive gift and the package includes a little booklet with a bunch of recipes for alternative ways to enjoy it.

Taking the much more widely available Campari as your benchmark, if you like it, chances are you’ll enjoy Amaro. But if Campari’s bitterness doesn’t sit well on your tastebuds, then likely neither will Amaro’s.

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A couple footnotes to things I’ve already mentioned. You know how when you’re car shopping and you finally select a car and one of the reasons you liked it because it is painted a “really unique colour that I don’t think I’ve ever seen on more than one or two other cars today!...” and as you’re driving it home from the dealership you notice that just about every other car on the frickin’ road is painted the same colour! ??

Yeah well, since I’ve returned from Italy and have several times raved about Buffalo (“Accept no substitutes!”) Mozzarella, it seems like every time I open a website or newspaper recipe page these days, especially when the feature is about salads and sides, I see my much loved caprese salad being offered as an extra special-tasting alternative to the traditional bowl of greens we customarily serve in this country.

Most recently, as I PS’ed to y’all not so long ago, the Globe and Mail’s wine writer, Beppi Cresariol touted it as the perfect pairing for Falanghina wine. The Globe’s occasional food writer, Lucy Waverman, recently included a caprese recipe in her own column. (Coincidence? I think not; she and Mr Cresariol have just launched a cookbook they have co-authored / photo).

Most recently, the foodie porn site “Food Gawker” offered this photo and recipe for what actually looks like a not-too-bad variation on the theme using a variety of tomatoes to add some colour and variety. (Photo: intheknowmom.net)

The visual appeal of the plate notwithstanding, I draw the line somewhere north of the accompanying recipe’s instruction: “If you cannot get your hand on buffalo mozzarella then use ordinary fresh mozzarella / bocconcino.”

NOOOOOOooooooooooooo! Neither “ordinary” mozzarella, however fresh, nor bocconcino – unless it is in a container labelled “Bocconcino di Bufala Campana DOP” – is a substitute for the real thing.

You might also remember I spoke in glowing terms of a couple pizzas – the deceptively simple Pizza Margherita, made up of tomato sauce, buffalo mozzarella, and fresh basil leaves, but which actually requires a meticulous adherence to Italy’s codes of food authenticity to earn the name, and the Pizza Quattro Stagioni (Four seasons pizza).

Well, I have since found a great photo of the latter that illustrates perfectly how it should arrive at your table. In this photo, between noon and 3 lie the mushrooms; prosciutto (which can also be thinly sliced Italian ham) sits between 3 and 6; 6-9 is where you’ll find black olives and the final quarter, 9-12, is filled with sliced artichoke hearts.

Again, its success will depend on the quality of your ingredients. Don’t, for example, use canned black olives, because they tend to be immersed in a watery brine rather than olive oil. Use Mediterranean olives (Kalamata, for example), which these days are pretty much a permanent part of any large grocery store’s deli section inventory. Loblaws and Farm Boy stores both have sectioned olive carts in their stores that offer an amazing variety of high quality olives, both black and green.

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Speaking of olive oil, nutritionists tend to be unanimous that it is a “good” oil, especially its EVOO form (Extra Virgin Olive Oil). If the label also says “cold-pressed”… that’s recommended. Apparently, temperatures over 86 degrees F enable more oil to be extracted during the crushing process, stretching and thinning it and making, therefore, an inferior product. Cold-pressing, when done right (and apparently it can be done wrong) renders less oil, but of a far superior quality. Or so say the olive experts at Californiaoliveranch.com.

More and more on Italian restaurant tables when the pre-meal bread basket arrives, either it will arrive with cruets of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, or they will be sitting on the table already as a staple. Spread a little oil on a saucer, add a few dots of the balsamic vinegar, each about the size of a $0.25 coin (because of the viscosity differences, the vinegar will hold its place as little circles). Then simply break your bread into bite-sized pieces, and lightly swirl it in the oil / vinegar mix. Based on my experience, I can say this is so good, and so flavourful, you may never use butter again for this purpose. (Nicastro’s Italian Foods in Ottawa is an eye-opening experience to shop for oil and vinegar. They have entire shelves devoted to olive oils and balsamic vinegars whose prices range from “Oh I can afford that” to figures that, ounce for ounce, can soar to levels that make a VSOP brandy look like Cott Cola.

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Just so you don’t get to thinking the only fluids we drank over there were alcoholic ones, well… you’re not far wrong. (Hey… Italy… Vino, birra, Limoncello, Amaro. It’s horse and carriage; fish and chips; Laurel and Hardy. One doesn’t work without the other.)

But when it was a quick, sugary thirst quencher I wanted, I usually turned to Italy’s own take on what is best known in North America as Orange Crush or Fanta. Italy’s take on the orangey goodness, however, is fantastic. Even their Fanta has been slightly less sugared than the way you get it over here. But far and away the best I was served was the one I was served first on the Rome to Venice train last Fall during our first trip to the country.

Aranciata is the generic name – it’ll get you an orange soda just about anywhere, but if you see San Pellegrino’s Aranciata Rossa on the cart, that’s the one you want to order. It’s made from the juice of the sanguinello (blood) orange, which imparts both a redder colour and a tangier orange flavour to the soda, not least because its recipe is actually 16% juice. Happily, it’s caught on like wildfire in North America and is a staple on both the Loblaws and Farm Boy soft drink shelves.

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“Salami” is an Italian word so it’s hardly surprising that they are unbelievably good at making it. (In fact, grammatically, it’s the plural of the correct singular, “salame”, so to my librarian and editor readers, don’t go editing the chalkboards outside restaurants when you see it spelled with the “e” at the end.)

Schneider’s Summer Sausage it ain’t. You probably also shouldn’t also be surprised if you’ve been reading this trip diary from the beginning but, like almost every other food or beverage that calls Italy home, what “salame / i” is / are depends on what region you’re in. I’m not going to go into all the variations here but you can get a sense of what the major regional variations are by Googling [Region name] salami, where “[Region name]” is Romano, Filzetti, Genova, Milano, Sopressata, Calabrese, Casalingo, and Abruzzi. Some are moist and tender while others (Abruzzi, for example) are so dry and firm that popping a thin round slice into your mouth requires a commitment on a par with tenderizing a 10-year old piece of chewing gum. Essentially, the main variables are the pork grind and the spices but under those two broad headings is a welter of sub-headlines. (Photo: foodloversodyssey.typepad.com)

Here in Canada, the Maestro company makes several of the classic regional types and they’re sold in most major grocery stores. And the only other thing you need to know is that not only are they all excellent, in Italy almost all of them are breakfast foods! Watch for the “Hot / Piquante” qualifier, though (or an almost artificial red / pinkish tint to the salami), because when Italians say their salami is hot, they mean it!

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Rum Baba: On the face of it, rum baba seems pretty straightforward – a yeast pastry with a rum flavour. Well if the rum baba we were served in Pompeii is any indication, it’s a pretty safe bet that, had it been available two millennia earlier, any of the town’s residents who were well into the dessert course of their lunch when Vesuvius blew would have been feeling no pain at all. None.

This is what it looks like – in its traditional Italian configuration. And yes, recalling my earlier update about the excessively… uh… er… well, priapic fascination displayed in some Pompeiian artworks, you can be forgiven if you pick up on a similar obsession’s apparently being reflected in this particular dessert pastry. Within seconds of its landing at our group’s table as part of our dessert course, we were all but collapsing in hilarity.

But it was our first bite that suddenly made us realize that this wasn’t simply an artificial rum-flavoured dessert. It was absolutely drenched in the stuff! Rum, that is. One or two of our hard-liquor-eschewing co-tourists hastily abandoned theirs after their first bites but I had no such qualms (in part because I quite like the stuff and my domestic bar is home to at least one amber and one black rum that both are so good they can be imbibed neat or on the rocks in much the same way as one might enjoy an after-dinner liqueur.)

Interestingly, despite finding a very happy place these days on almost every southern Italy bakery’s dessert trays, rum baba has nothing, it seems, Italian in its origins. Several culinary histories trace its roots to the late 17th C in the Alsace – Lorraine region of France but how it got into the wider Europe from there is, you’ll pardon the pun, all over the map. (Although its appearance in Naples in the mid 18thC – possibly created by visiting French chefs – cemented its permanent place in the “dolce” cuisine in that part of the country.)

But on one thing no one disagrees – including our little band of intrepid travellers. A great rum baba is literally “saturated in hard liquor”. (Wikipedia) And so were we by the time we sloshed back aboard our tour bus.

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A few random pointers: If you’re feeling somewhat peckish but maybe not up to a whole meal, try dropping into a café and ordering a bottle of wine. Italians generally believe that food is a necessary accompaniment to the leisurely consumption of a bottle of wine and will wheel out what is often a surprisingly generous array of complimentary munchies when all you’ve ordered is a bottle. In Orvieto, for example, we found ourselves with unordered platters of bruschetta, three or four different kinds of meat and vegetable spreads, focaccia and crisp breads. Occasionally, we received the more traditional salty bar snacks. (Although at Harry’s Bar in Rome the potato chips were so incredible we figure they must actually be made on site because nothing like that in our experience has ever come out of a bag.)

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In Italy, lemon gelato is the earthly preview of what awaits you in heaven. No matter where you order it. So behave yourselves, because in hell all they serve is month-old pie crust. With no water.

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One thing Chef Lorenzo taught us is that making homemade pasta is not only ridiculously simple, it’s fun. On a large wooden cutting board, you “make a Colosseum”, i.e. a closed circular wall of the dry ingredients. Then in the middle you place your wet ingredients (typically just eggs, water and oil in whatever proportion / quantity the recipe calls for). Then you gradually draw your dry ingredients down from your Colosseum wall, mixing them with the wet until the pasta or dough’s consistency gets to where you want it to be. And let it rest for about 20 - 30 minutes before cutting it into pasta. Using a hand-cranked pasta maker also gives you more control over the final shape / cut of the pasta, like driving a car with a standard vs an automatic transmission on an icy street.

This is the one we bought; it's made of stainless steel; it’s heavy and solid and it comes with a base clamp to hold it firmly in place on a tabletop while you’re turning the crank. It’s also pretty widely available in most places where specialty kitchen appliances are sold.

Oh: for pasta, you have to use a “00” semolina flour. It’s an ultrafine grind (think Arabic coffee) and is another Italian food store staple. For some reason, it’s not readily available in major grocery stores, at least not in Ottawa (something that surprised me when I went looking for it, given that our “Little Italy” is a community large enough that they publish their own telephone book every year). Not surprising, however, is the fact that Nicastro’s has about ten different brands.

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Pork belly in Italy is a staple, because porchetta is a staple. But finding it in Canada requires making a special order from a specialty butcher. That’s why most North American porchetta recipes begin by telling you to have your butcher de-bone a pork butt roast. Because it’s just too damned difficult to glue all those strips of bacon together and then lard a layer of skin over the top.

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Well, I get to this point with mixed emotions. Writing this year’s Italy trip diary has been a heck of a lot of fun but I’m now staring at a blank page in my notebook.

So I guess there’s nothing left for us to do but plan another trip. In the meantime, I’m thinking of maybe returning to the regular bleats and whines that have marked both “Baby Duck” and its current successor, “TriumphAnt”.

Brace yourself.

See you next time.

No wonder Italy is food-obsessed…

…when every conversation seems to end with a call for chow!

And who is this Harry Vederchi that everyone seems to think I am?

The path from the Villa Borghese to the restaurant where we had a dinner reservation took us through an archway in the wall that, at one time, marked the boundary between “in Rome” and “outside Rome”. Not surprisingly, considering the country’s (and its capital’s) history of being invaded and sacked, we’re talking about a lot more than a simple picket fence here.

On the left is the Villa Borghese’s garden entrance and, on the right, the massive wall that once circled the entire city of Rome. You might recall in one my earlier updates, when I talked about where the catacombs are located, I referred to just about any place outside the walls of old Rome as a likely roof for one subterranean burial chamber or another. Unlike modern cities, Romans were forbidden from burying their dead inside the walls. The practice of burying the entire body was also something the Christians, beginning in about the 2ndC A.D. brought to Rome along with their attendant belief of an eventual resurrection. Without going into a lot of detail, previously the almost universal custom among the largely pagan population of the city had been for cremation, so embalming, to put it delicately, was not something done really well at the time. So – outside the wall with Grandpa, please and thank you.

Not too far inside the wall, we found one of Rome’s most popular bars among those who long for the good old “Mad Men” days of three-martini lunches – Harry’s on the Via Veneto, home of fine cocktails, excellent bar snacks and a long attraction among the hoi polloi, many of whose photos grace the walls both inside and out. (One big reason could be the presence – almost directly across the street – of the US Embassy, but that might cause one to make rather *ahem* inappropriate conclusions about the lunching and dining habits of the American diplomatic corps and the soaring word-of-mouth popularity as more and more friends of those same diplomats came to the city for a visit.)

For the record, Leslie and I can vouch from firsthand experience that they make a fantastic Planter’s Punch and margarita – and their bottled Guinness is damned fine, too!

Our dinner that night was a place not too far from Harry’s – thankfully, because their cocktails also contain a generous amount of whatever liquor forms their base with all the resulting impact on a person’s co-ordination. This particular restaurant had been recommended to us as an experience in “comfort food”. It was; Les had a schnitzel cordon bleu and I had a beef that had been braised all day in a rich wine sauce and, as a result, was so tender it could easily have been cut with a dull spoon. We shared a bottle of red wine and if you haven’t yet savoured a bottle based on the Sangiovese grape, I highly recommend it. All the “heavy red” adjectives apply – robust, full-bodied, “plummy”, etc – and with winter getting closer it is absolutely perfect in close proximity to a crackling hearth.

The next day, Leslie was conferencing for the early part of the day and I opted to update my notes upon which this book-length trip diary has been based. Surprisingly, she returned earlier than I expected and she has given me permission to share why.

Apparently, organizers of an academic library-based conference in Rome are pretty much resigned to the fact that the vast majority of people are likely there because it is in Rome, and not because of the quality of the scheduled papers because they were all over the map in terms of both academic content and quality of presentation.

In like manner there was, she said, precious little attention given to posting onsite signs steering delegates to whatever room they needed to be in for the seminar topic of their choice. The coffee break and lunch, she added, were simply laughable. Held in the university cafeteria, coffee was served by one hopelessly overworked behind-the-counter employee who was shoveling the little Euro-sized cups across the counter as fast as she could, but nowhere near fast enough to make the process smooth for the couple hundred people waiting for a cup.

She (Leslie) also said that it was easy to tell who the American and Canadian delegates were – the people looking at the minuscule cups they were handed as if it were a sample for their approval before they received the mugs of joe they clearly expected.

Lunch, she said, was no better and apparently consisted of the same cafeteria food as was flung across the counter at the students, with whom the delegates had to share the cafeteria at the same time, quickly filling the limited number of seats to capacity and leaving a lot of people wandering off to find a place somewhere else.

So since Leslie returned with that tale in the very early afternoon, having abandoned the conference entirely for the day, we decided on yet another walkabout, this time to an amazing ongoing classical Roman excavation on a huge hilltop beside the Colosseum called the Palatino (the Palatine Hill).

Getting into the Palatino site required separating our wallets from 14 Euros each, but it proved to be eminently worth it.

A brief bit of background: The Palatino overlooks – and forms a part of – one of the most ancient sections of Rome. In fact, local mythology holds that the hill is the site of the “Lupercal”, the cave where Rome’s twin founders, Romulus and Remus, were supposedly discovered by the she-wolf who nursed them and kept them alive. Leaving the mythology aside, apparently some recent excavations have been discovered that date to 1,000 B.C.

Related to the classical period, the hill has been home to some pretty famous Romans, including Augustus – the city’s first emperor, Tiberius and Vespasian.

Most famously, the Emperor Nero, whose extravagances re-defined “obscene”, set about constructing for himself a “Domus Aurea” (Golden Palace) after Rome’s great fire in 64 A.D. wiped out several of the elaborate homes and estates of many of Rome’s wealthy living on the Palatino’s slopes. Variously estimated to cover between 100 and 300 acres of central Rome, much of the Domus Aurea remains to be excavated. Sadly, Nero never really got to enjoy his wretched excess for very long; he committed suicide in 68 A.D.

To stroll the Palatino today is to wander among grounds that two millennia ago were barred to all but the most stratospheric of the upper echelons of Roman society.

Here are a few photos taken among the ruins to be found on that large chunk of central Roman real estate:

Even on a blindingly sunny hot day, the Palatino is a wonderful place to wander because its archaeology is interspersed with some magnificent Mediterranean pines that cast large patches of shade, many of them dotted with benches and even public water fountains.

Leslie and I disagreed on whether the random placement of contemporary art pieces among the classical structures enhanced or detracted from the site – as was the case with the modern gleaming marble installation here in the midst of a massive courtyard. (She favoured “enhance” while I was of the opinion that the modern art belonged in a setting elsewhere. Probably makes me a Philistine.) Ironically, the signs accompanying the modern pieces were much more informative than were the signs telling us just what exactly were the 2,000+ year-old structures surrounding them.

Rome was built to last and one result is that there are few restrictions among monumental sites like the Palatino that bar visitors. Besides the wide-open ground level here, notice the people on the upper level in the centre background (which actually is exactly where I was when I took the previous photo that includes the modern art.)

OK… so sometimes a modern placement graces its ancient setting. One of these photos is Leslie channelling Sophia and the other is Sophia herself captured in 1981 by the late Ottawa master photographer Yousuf Karsh. Can you tell which is which? (“Real” Sophia photo source: http://pleasurephoto.wordpress.com )

Two more dining experiences to report before we say goodbye to Italy 2013. On one of my wander-about days while Leslie was conferencing, I found an amazing pub called l’Antica Birreria Peroni and, as it turns out, it’s the kind of place native Romans go for lunch.

As its name suggests, it’s an old-fashioned pub tied to the Peroni brewery and let me tell you that you will find few drinks more refreshing on a scorching Roman mid-day than an ice-cold pint of one of Italy’s signature beers. The day we toured the Palatino, since we were in the neighbourhood (if you get to the Wedding Cake, you’re a five minute walk away from 19 Via San Marcello, the pub’s address) I suggested it to Leslie – and since we were both ready for a chill break, it was an easy sell.

The pub is built on the site of a former shrine where, the story goes, in 1669 an image of the Virgin Mary being displayed on a nearby wall moved her eyes. (Not to be sacrilegious or anything, but a few pints of Peroni bashed down as thirst-quenchers on a hot Italian afternoon will definitely seem to trigger movement of the walls themselves, never mind any images that might be plastered on them!)

Food is affordable, basic comfort food – Leslie had a perfectly grilled breast of chicken with fries while I opted for a knackwurst with fries and sauerkraut. (Fodor’s, I discovered, calls it the home of the best hot dog in Rome.) Meanwhile at the table right beside us, an older local woman was happily picking apart an entire fish. The whole time we were there, it was just bustling with both the fashionably business-dressed and the blue-collar trades who brushed plaster dust off their shirts before they came in.

Memo to self: Next time, get Leslie to take the mandatory we-were-there photo BEFORE we go into a wonderful pub like the l’Antica Birreria Peroni, rather than at the doorway after a couple pints of beer have been tucked away. (Actually, truth to tell, it was her first experience with my new camera and she admitted she might have flubbed the focus… That’s her story and she’s sticking to it.)

After a leisurely walk back once more past the Forum, the Circus Maximus and the Colosseum, we returned to the hotel for a late afternoon siesta before walking a few blocks to another place that turned into a completely memorable dinner: the Romeo e Agata. We decided that since this was our last dinner in Italy we were going to do it traditionally, with something from both their Primi Piatti and Secundi Piatti and a Dolce to wrap up. For the first course, Leslie has an exquisite pea soup garnished with cuttlefish ink (which tasted waaay better than its description might suggest) while I had one of their signature dishes, a spaghetti with a pecorino (sheep’s milk) cheese sauce that re-defined “rich” under a generous grating of black pepper (actually called “Agata’s style" on the menu).

Leslie’s main was a cluster of lamb chops that she pronounced “perfect” while I opted once more for sea bass. I like sea bass a lot, but it is something I have tried unsuccessfully more than once to cook myself (including a disastrous grilling experience that saw large chunks simply flake away between the grates). So far I have failed utterly to do it even close to how well an Italian chef can prepare it, but I have discovered that a carefully monitored pan-fry in olive oil does produce a nice preparation.

We also scored bonus points with the waiter by asking for one of two Falanghinas on their wine list. As I mentioned in my earlier update that described our Mustilli winery tasting and tour, Falanghina is a southern Italian heritage grape recently being re-introduced to oenophiles (Cross two triple word-scores in Scrabble with that one and your opponent will abandon the game in tears!) and simply knowing of its existence seems to mark you as a serious wine lover. (See “Mike’s Guide to Faking Wine Connoisseury”, coming soon!)

Thinking the more expensive was probably the better, I was rather pleasantly surprised when, for the first time in my life in a restaurant, I was talked into a cheaper bottle; the waiter told us that Falanghina actually has far more character in its youth than when aged. So he suggested we try a more recent, less expensive 2010 instead of the 2008 we had originally requested and it was fantastic.

The trip home was marred only by a delay in getting off the runway. While waiting in the departure lounge, I was watching a TV news channel and saw that apparently an “emergency landing” had closed one of Rome’s runways. Given airport spokespersons’ penchant for euphemism, it was only after we returned home that we discovered one of the many Baltic airlines had experienced what pilots call a “hard landing” – essentially hitting the runway so firmly that the landing gear collapses. No injuries; no fire, thankfully, but no doubt a hell of a bump for the passengers and a mammoth exercise in getting the aircraft jacked up sufficiently that temporary wheeled locomotion could be slid into place underneath to get it off the runway.

Meanwhile, this was our view when we finally swung into position for our take-off roll on the one serviceable runway – a line-up behind us in which we had already spent 45 minutes waiting for our turn as aircraft not only took off, but a couple dozen landed farther and farther behind schedule as the day went on.

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Coda… In 1955, an otherwise little-known movie entitled “The Seven Hills of Rome” featured this musical interlude written by Renato Rascel and sung by Mario Lanza. It was an instant hit – especially when it was given an English lyric as well as the original Italian. (Well, as “instant” as anything could be in the pre-You Tube days of building an audience through repeated airplay.)

During the 1960 Olympic Summer Games in Rome, the Coca Cola company in Italy gave a vinyl souvenir recording of the song to the competing athletes and Olympic officials. It has since been recorded by singers as diverse as Dean Martin, Perry Como, Nat King Cole, The Ames Brothers, Connie Francis and, of course, countless Italian singers in addition to Mario. By way of farewell, here is as good a version as any that I’m including here for the obvious reason that it is illustrated postcard-style with some of the places we saw on this trip and our visit last Fall, (and a few we’ll save for next time). Play us out, Renato! (Coke record label photo source: coca-colaconversations.com)

Next time: just some of the many tastes of Italy.