I’m at the marble slab-topped table in the kitchen of our AirBnB rental in Trastevere, Rome. We are steps away from what were once known as the banks of the Tiber River. Steep walls have replaced the once broad banks, forcing the Tiber to a tidy channel that snakes its way through the city, relieving its denizens from centuries of regular, and deadly, malarial waves.
My daughter is creating a painting-collage from materials she found in the apartment including her own blood from her injured toe. And sugar, as glue. My son took a long bath. I brought them both tea, twice. I brought my daughter a pot of hot, salty water for her foot. We listen to Pink Floyd because the guitarist on the stoop of the fountain before the Pantheon today played “Wish You Were Here” while my son rested his head in my daughter’s lap, and I held my breath in wonder and snapped a photo of this rare tableau of my children who are often at loggerheads, but who have been gradually, tentatively finding a way to each other.
The sun slanted down a narrow street alongside the Pantheon, warming the cold marble and cobblestones around and beneath us. People flocked to the bars of light, lying about the fountain as we were, or scooting their chairs to follow the warmth from the cafes lining the piazza. In general though, Rome is tourist-light, we are given to understand. To our sensibilities (eyes and ears), there are plenty of tourists around, including a heap of North Americans, but the security and Green Pass (vaccination proof) line at the Pantheon took about ten minutes when we were told to expect an hour wait.
I booked a lunch reservation two weeks ago at Armando al Pantheon, for 2:00. We made our way there. I thought it was on the corner of the piazza, but when I inquired, trepidation building in my heart when I saw rows of empty tables outside, I learned the restaurant I approached was not Armando al Pantheon after all, and that said restaurant was actually right off the piazza, on that tiny street at the front right corner of the Pantheon as you’re facing that phenomenal Roman temple.
We dutifully made our way there. I noted the six to eight full tables outside and attentive waiters passing one another in and out the door. I peered into the window and noted a hushed, orderly atmosphere through multiple panes of wavy, yellow glass, and my heart sang. It looked like it would be what I’d hoped it to be: Old-school, historic, respectable, delicious, and patronized by Italians.
We were early, and they couldn’t take us early, so we went round the block. I suggested we enter the first handsome church we encountered, but M. apparently isn’t doing churches here and declined. R. and I entered, but I became uncomfortable and went back for M., who lo and behold was nowhere to be found. I poked into a couple of nearby stores. Nothing. I went back for R. who was seated in the second row. On the way back out with R. in tow, I noticed a large black backpack unattended in a pew. There were many army folk and carabinieri outside. We told them about the unattended backpack, but the guard seemed nonplussed (!).
Unable to find M., R. and I made our way back to Armando al Pantheon. We were seated at a four-top toward the back of the wood-paneled restaurant, with the upper walls covered in old paintings and posters. The waiter checked our Green Passes (in our cases, our ID + vaccination cards), handed us menus, and asked if we’d like still or “sparkly” water. (We chose sparkly.) And then we waited for M.
She arrived less than ten minutes later, and we set about examining the menu. We selected a mozzarella burrata with artichoke, a Roman egg drop soup, spaghetti a la carbonara, a linguine with “chicken liver, lungs, and heart,” grilled lamb chops, a guinea stew, and a chicory salad, accompanied by a half bottle of Dolcetto, with gelato pops for dessert (plus a macchiato for me).
The light slanted in through the wavy, yellow, coke-bottle-bottoms single window, over the heads of an amorous couple who kept presenting picture-perfect poses with every tender caress. Everyone appeared to be Roman; I heard no English spoken.
The execution of the dishes was spot on. The burrata-artichoke antipasti was simply dressed in fragrant olive oil and crunchy sea salt. The golden soup simple homemade goodness. The pastas, not overly al dente like many places serve here, but perfect, with a tender resistance, or bite, to the teeth. The organ meats sauce was rich, but not overpowering; the carbonara served in a kind of beehive hairdo shape with guanciale, cheese, and coarse, freshly ground pepper on top. The lamb was mild and tender, salty and smoky, fragrant and juicy. The guinea I would say was my least favorite, only because the mushroom stew overpowered the poultry. The salad was a wonder because although it was swimming in olive oil and just the faintest bit of acid, it was delicious that way, not overdressed in any sense of the word, as I would think, perhaps because the chicory sprouts were robust, almost like bean sprouts. The copious oil couldn’t wilt them. It simply provided a delicious bath of fragrant oil with just that hint of acid—vinegar or lemon juice—and a light shower of salt and fresh-ground black pepper. It was my daughter’s favorite dish.
The small dining room was hushed, formal, and elegant, yet also down-home, simple, and unfussy. White linens covered all eight or so tables in a setting that hadn’t been remodeled since the 1960s. The single, ancient, yellow-glassed window contributed to the sanctity of the place. The nuzzling lovers in the corner, the family that came in and were seated beside us, with two teenaged boys, the low murmuring voices, oh, and I can’t forget the blues. The proprietors of Armando al Pantheon anacronistically played North American blues—old stuff, scratchy-record stuff, slow stuff that made the tracking of time impossible.
We were held in the bosom of this historic, dignified, excellent restaurant with a hint of insouciance (the blues) for a couple of hours, or three. We were the last patrons to leave. We laughed, ate, dawdled. We relaxed.
It was all one hopes for coming to Rome. The restaurant felt like something out of The Godfather in the best possible way. Shadows, faded glamour, dark wood, stained glass, the blues, and the celebration of great, simple food for which Italy is famous.