WHEN IN ROME
Susan Russell has a Roman dinner, with a Roman family, in Rome
I t’s shortly after 7pm on a sultry summer evening in Rome, and I’m standing outside a modest low-rise apartment block in the southern suburbs, a two-bottle pack of South African merlot clutched to my chest.
I’m a little nervous, because I am far from the familiar landmarks of my Roman comfort zone, because I’ve never met my hosts, and because I will be expected to assist in the cooking of our dinner.
It’s one thing to whip up a quick spagbol in the safety of my Joburg kitchen; quite another to be standing shoulder-toshoulder with an Italian signora of some repute on her own turf.
Cecilia Paesani and her family, husband Emildio and son Bruno, are the brains behind a clever enterprise that offers visitors the opportunity to experience Italian family cooking in their home. It’s proved to be a winning recipe for scores of travellers from the US, Canada and Australia, and, they hope, South Africa too. Which is why, thanks to Johannesburg Italy travel specialists Medvacations (whose man on the ground in Rome, Andrea Dileo Riccio, happens to be Cecilia’s brother), I’ve jumped the queue and snatched a place at the Paesani family table at extremely short notice.
Andrea and I are buzzed up to the first floor where Cecilia, Emildio and Bruno envelop us in the kind of welcome for which Italian families are famous. First is a quick tour of their apartment, including the small but perfectly formed kitchen.
At this point I’m still not sure to what extent my culinary skills are to be tested, but the smells reveal that Cecilia already has matters well in hand.
What Cecilia and her family offer is not a cooking course in the traditional sense, although demos and shopping for ingredients are some of what she offers too, but rather the chance to enjoy an informal meal with an Italian family. For me at least, the evening is going to be about eating.
Most of the meal, with the exception of the pasta, is all but ready. Cecilia takes me through the menu — antipasto of bruschetta with a variety of toppings; spaghetti carbonara for the
primo; the secondo is pollo con i peperoni, essentially a chicken casserole, with a side dish of roasted potato; and, oh joy, we will be having tiramisu for the dolce.
Kitchen duty done for the time being, we sit down at the table, which literally is the heart of this home, slap bang in the middle of the lounge/dining room.
A robust Italian red is opened and we start on the bruschetta, which are startlingly good. Cecilia tells me that she shops for ingredients at a nearby street market and her local supermarket. Both are a universe away from touristy markets such as Campo di Fiore in central Rome, but Cecilia, in common with home cooks across Italy, takes it for granted that first rate produce and products are readily available at more modest local markets and the neighbourhood superette.
Cecilia’s approach to cooking is equally down to earth and practical; she and her family take it for granted that what they eat every day will be influenced by the seasons, and her pride in sharing the pleasures of Italian home cooking is infectious.
It’s now time for the primo, and here I come into my own. I am asked to put the pasta into the boiling water and, when it’s ready, mix it into the carbonara sauce, which I am surprised to discover contains no garlic or onion. It’s delicious, and I clean my plate.
The conversation is flowing and I have forgotten that I am with people who were perfect strangers two hours ago. My dinner companions are voluble and occasionally the conversation erupts into a high-velocity volley of Italian. Perhaps it’s the soft glow imparted by the wine, but I still feel included, and then the conversation seamlessly segues back into English.
The secondo is served. It’s also marvellous, simple ingredients elevated to
KITCHEN DUTY DONE, A ROBUST ITALIAN RED IS OPENED
superstardom by a loving hand. I clean my plate again and am amazed to discover that I am quite able to tackle dessert.
We linger over a palate-cleansing sorbet as Cecilia, Emildio and Bruno tell me about their guests from around the world, who often book a meal with them to celebrate a special occasion, and about the friends they’ve made in the process. Amazingly, they take bookings seven days a week for most of the year.
Finally, Cecilia serves the tiramisu, which is at once familiar but completely unlike the specimens I’ve had in Italian restaurants back home. I eat the lot.
We end the meal with a selection of liqueurs — limoncello (Cecilia and Andrea’s father was from the Amalfi coast) and a melon and peach version, which is not only delicious but has the desired effect on my digestion.
Too soon it’s time to call a taxi, but not before Emildio, who has been snapping away during the evening, presents me with a picture of me and the family. As the taxi takes me back to the Rome of monuments and tourists, I decide that my love affair with Italian food will almost certainly prove to be a lasting relationship.