Until European travel becomes fully open to North Americans, here鈥檚 a reminder of the fun that awaits in Europe.
A statue of Giordano Bruno marks the centre of Campo de鈥� Fiori 鈥� my favorite square in Rome. Five centuries ago, Bruno challenged the Roman Church and was burned at the stake right here. With each visit, I make a quiet little pilgrimage, staring into the eyes of brooding Bruno, pondering the courage of those early heretics.
When in Rome, I use Bruno as a meeting point. (I like to say, 鈥淚鈥檒l be sitting under Bruno.鈥�) Tonight, I鈥檓 waiting for my Roman friends Stefano and Paola. With each visit, they take me on a quest for restaurants to recommend in my guidebook. They鈥檝e promised to take me to a little restaurant they deem perfect. When they arrive, I say ciao to Bruno and we walk down a narrow cobbled lane to a classic, crumpled little piazza filled with scooters. On the far side, a single eatery is all lit up. The sign above the door says 鈥淔iletti di Baccal脿.鈥�
鈥淪tefano, you鈥檙e right. This is perfect.鈥� I walk ahead, navigating the gridlock of abandoned scooters to get into the restaurant. A long line of tables, covered with white-paper tablecloths and crowded with locals, stretches to a neon-lit kitchen in the back. And there, two grease-splattered cooks are busy cranking out filetti di baccal脿鈥ome鈥檚 answer to fish sticks.
There鈥檚 one table open near the back, past an old man in a black suit playing the violin. We limbo by the violinist and grab it. Above our table a weathered sign reads Specialit脿 Filetti di Baccal脿 60 lire. The price has been revised over the years in response to the whims of the economy, peaking at 4,000 lire. Today, it鈥檚 five euros. The harried waiter drops off a simple menu, listing a humble selection of appetizers and salads, but only one main course (filetti di baccal脿) and, with his thumb hitchhiking into his mouth, asks, 鈥淒a bere?鈥� (鈥淭o drink?鈥�).
Our fillet of cod is about what you鈥檇 expect at a top-notch London fish-and-chips joint. We enjoy it along with some breaded and fried zucchini, a salad of greens I鈥檇 never before encountered, and a carafe of white wine. Some people might think the meal is nothing special. But buried deep in the medieval center of the city, in a tarnished and varnished eatery without a tourist in sight, the ambience is intoxicating.
The violinist plays Sinatra鈥檚 鈥淢y Way鈥� to an appreciative crowd. Eventually he makes his way to our table, standing just beyond Paola鈥檚 radiant face. It鈥檚 a classic Roman moment. Her dark eyes, framed by little black glasses, are locked on Stefano鈥檚. Tiny rings of pearls set in gold swing from her ears. A gold necklace is the perfect complement to her smooth, olive complexion.
Like a hungry camera, my eyes compose the scene: carafe of golden white wine shimmering in the foreground, Paola鈥檚 face looking lovingly at her husband in the middle, and the violinist 鈥� jaw tight on his instrument but still smiling 鈥� in the back. The happy chatter of dinner conversation rounds out the tableau.
As if only for Paola, the musician plays a Roman anthem to the night. Paola whispers to me, 鈥淭his is 鈥楶onentino鈥欌� special wind, a sweet鈥︹�� brushing her hand gently along her cheek in search of the word, 鈥溾�aressing Roman wind.鈥�
Then she and Stefano face the music, and with the entire room, sing the song:
Rome, don鈥檛 be foolish tonight.
Give me the sweet wind to let her say yes.
Turn on all the stars that you have鈥he brightest ones.
Give me a small flash of the moon, only for us.
Let her feel that springtime is arriving.
Give me your very best crickets to sing to her.
Give me the ponentino.
Be a partner with me.
Paola translates for me. In verse two, the woman answers: 鈥淩ome, give me a helping hand to tell him no,鈥� and so on. But, in the final verse, of course, they get together, creating the love triangle: a man, a woman鈥nd Rome.
With the room still singing, the elegant older couple at the next table look over at us. Seeming pleased that the three of us 鈥� a generation behind hers 鈥� are enjoying this traditional Roman moment, the woman says, 鈥淏ella.鈥�
This article was adapted from Rick鈥檚 new book, For the Love of Europe.
Rick Steves (www.ricksteves.com) writes European guidebooks, hosts travel shows on public TV and radio, and organizes European tours. You can email Rick at [email protected] and follow his blog on Facebook.
