Taste of Rome

A Taste of Rome: Discovering the Spice of Italian Life
By Betsy Malloy, Freelance Writer

The small kitchen bulges; tomatoes, herbs, peppers, pots and dishes strewn all over the countertop. Boiling water steams on the stove while red sauc The view from the window alone is enough to make a "dinner party" at Carla Viti's apartment worthwhile. e simmers nearby, flecked with green basil. "Do you like your food hot?" our hostess asks, dried peppers in hand.

Paying a perfect stranger to cook us dinner? What was I thinking? "We can buy four nice dinners for that price," my husband Prasad protested, always practical. "But it's a cooking class, too," I countered, "Here, read the menu. See the picture of the view?" In the end, Prasad was glad I prevailed because that meal was our vacation's highlight.

We wanted to learn about Italy's food and culture, but I knew it would be hard to meet local people outside their roles as clerks, tour guides and waiters. An Internet search for a cooking class turned up Delicious Italy, a website specializing in Italian food and culture. Its hosts, Phil and Giuseppina, recommended Carla Viti, who hosts dinner parties and cooking demonstrations in her penthouse near the Vatican.

I visited Viti's website and corresponded with her by email to agree on a date. Four weeks later, on a Sunday evening, we find her son Paolo waiting outside her apartment building. In his late twenties, his smile edged with mischief, his white dress shirt open-collared, he wears silver bracelets that jingle when we shake hands.

Paolo leads us to Viti's tenth-floor apartment. We're barely inside when she sings out: "Bett-sy!" Short and blonde, she makes the little black dress she's wearing look elegant. She greets me with a hug and a kiss on each cheek, and we're instantly on a first-name basis.

I begin introductions: "This is my husband Prasad, my friend Sudha…" Sudha's husband Bhasker interrupts, saying: "My name is "Bas-ca-R-R-R-O-ni," in a silly Italian accent. Catching h The correct way to knead the pizza dough was one of the mnay things we learned from Carla. er breath from laughing, Carla introduces her cooking assistant Adele and Paolo's friend Fabrizio.

Sipping Prosecco, a light, straw-colored, fizzy wine, everyone heads for the terrace, climbing up a tiny spiral staircase that looks like it belongs in a child's playhouse. This is one of Rome's tallest apartment buildings, and we can see for miles. "What's that?" we ask. "It's the Vittorio Emanuel Monument," Paolo says. "See over there?" Fabrizio points out, "That's the Pantheon, and over here is the Vatican."

Cool evening breezes drive us back inside. Aglow with candlelight, the apartment smells of cooking tomatoes and herbs. A black cat naps in a chair. Adele works in the kitchen, a space that would be cramped with three people in it, and we all crowd in to watch. She kneads ivory-colored pizza dough in a white bowl, working like an expert masseuse while Carla explains the ingredients: flour, lievito di birra (yeast), olive oil and milk.

As Adele spreads dough in a pan, Carla narrates: "Don't use a, how do you say it? Rolling pin? Press it with your hands so you leave places for the sauce to collect." Chopped tomatoes mixed with olive oil and basil top the dough, sprinkled with mozzarella cheese. "Americans put too many things on their pizzas," she continues. "The secret of Italian cooking is to keep it simple, and use only the best ingredients."

While the pizza bakes, Paolo talks about meeting a American girl who thought Americans invented both pizza and the Colosseum (a southern California football stadium). Carla says: "You could give her the Colosseum, but let her take credit for pizza? No!" "Pizza was invented in Naples, you know," Fabrizio interjects, adding: "If you can't go there, the best Naples-style pizza in Rome is at Dar Poeta."

As I bite into the pizza, flavors register one by one: tomato, basil, mozzarella cheese complementing the other tastes, and crisp, yeasty crust holding it all together. It's so good that we forget to save room for dishes to come – fettuccine ai funghi, penne arrabiatta, turkey with sage, chicken with peppers.

Carla calls: "Bett-sy!" when she wants something, or she just grabs an arm and tugs. Even though she's near my age, I find myself copying Paolo, saying "yes, momm-ma" in reply. Traditional Italian style pizza is one of the many things you will learn to cook. "Let me show you how I made this," she says. "Do you know how to prepare the basil for this sauce? Tear it with your hands. It's so much better that way. Here, smell."

Italians cooks treat their food like lovers, touching, patting and caressing. There's a deeper meaning, too, I think. Sharing a meal forges strong connections. By cooking, you share part of yourself, and I accept the result.

Trooping back into the kitchen, wine glasses in hand, we watch Adele and Carla prepare fettuccine ai funghi (pasta with mushrooms). Adele demonstrates: Mix an egg and some olive oil with flour, roll it out thin, and cut into strips. Like a virtuoso, she makes it look easy.

"You try it," Carla says, grabbing Bhasker and tying an apron around his waist. The result barely resembles Adele's paper-thin strips, made earlier and set aside to dry. Bhasker holds up a thick, doughy string, looking like damp corrugated cardboard, and Paolo christens it "Bas-ca-RO-ni." Adele quivers with laughter, but doesn't say a word.

Carla starts the sauce. "The best olive oil comes from Puglia," she says as she picks up a hand-labeled bottle and pours emerald-green oil into a skillet. After cooking whole garlic cloves in the oil until they're golden, she discards them. Wild mushrooms, purchased in a local market that morning, sizzle and brown in garlic-scented oil.

We toast new friends over fettuccine. Paolo speaks of "getting inside another person's mind" by visiting their home. Italian mixes with English, words tumbling over each other. "Como se dice…" "How do you say…" Italian speech rises and falls in rhythm, and even men arguing on the sidewalk sound like they're doing it in harmony. In happiness, the sound is musical, and the apartment resonates with it.
Typical appetizers you will learn to cook during Carla's class.

"Puttanesca or arrabiata?" Carla asks. Prasad, the hot food-lover, chooses arrabiata. "I'll make it al paese, in a very 'low' style, the way they make it in the country," she says, pulling out three tiny, dried red peppers half as big as a matchstick. Prasad thinks it's not enough. "Use six," he says. The "salsa di pomodoro," Carla uses looks like tomato juice. "American tomato sauce is too strong," she tells us. The red peppers and some hand-torn basil complete the arrabiata sauce.

Minutes later, we're back around the table, red-coated penne glistening in white plates. Arriabiata means "angry," but this sauce isn't just mad, it's livid. Eyes water and noses run. Prasad keeps eating while everyone else gulps water and fans overheated tongues.

We've been talking and eating for over four hours, and two desserts are still ahead. Finally, we surrender, unable to hold another bite. The evening winds down. Paying for the meal feels awkward, like giving money to a friend who invited you to dinner. Paolo calls a cab, and we say goodbye amid kisses and hugs.

Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote: "The best we can find in our travels is an honest friend." When we remember Rome, it's not monuments, fountains or panoramic vistas that come to mind. Instead, it's Carla and the others, and the happy dinner party we shared.

Useful Websites

General Cooking Classes

www.deliciousitaly.com

Carla Viti

www.rome-tour.com

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