Rome: Four and a half restaurant reviews

Nonna Betta

NB is a dairy restaurant whose appetizers outshone its entrees, at least in our case. Our appetizers included Suppli (tomato flavored risotto, packed around a hunk of mozzarella cheese, breaded and deep-fried), a salt cod and chickpea soup, and fried artichoke. This last dish is an iconic dish in the Jewish Ghetto, so much so that tourists - Jews and Gentiles alike - flock there to try it. I’ll break them down one by one.

The suppli were luxurious, providing three layers of texture: the crisp outer layer, the creamy starch of well-cooked risotto, and the gooey fat of the cheese center; the flavor itself came mostly from the tomato. Although Rachel is quite the fan of mozzarella, she was not overly taken by the suppli. I could have eaten twelve.

The fried artichoke was delicious, as are most deep-fried starchy vegetables. Given the choice between eating an artichoke fried versus boiled and dipped in mayonnaise, I would easily choose the former ten times out of ten. But both Rachel and I would agree that the fried ‘choke doesn’t beat a good order of fries.

The salt cod (baccala) and chickpea soup was our favorite dish at Nonna Betta, and one of our favorite in all of Rome. Salt cod is kind of like fish jerky, and making it into soup rehydrates the fish, and dilutes its saltiness to palatable levels. At the same time, the salt flavors the otherwise bland chickpeas. The result is a creamy, hearty soup with chunks of fish that are not at all fishy. Since then I have been on a perpetual search for salt cod in Israeli grocery stores, though the closest I could find was a frozen fish called “bakala” which does not appear to be salt cod. (Editor's note: Israeli bakala is Hake, a fish which we tasted while dining with a South African friend; he says every time he sees it in the store, he calls his mom and they buy as much as their freezer can hold)

For entrees, Rachel ordered salmon risotto while I ordered a pizza topped with mozzarella di bufala and tomatoes. I was excited about the cheese, because authentic mozzarella is made with buffalo milk, and authentic is always better, right? Of course not. In this case, the flavor of the cheese ranked higher than standard mozz in terms of sophistication (read: funk), but it didn’t ooze and flow like a good NY slice. The true stars of the pizza were those little chunks of tomato; sweet to begin with, the blistering heat of the pizza oven caused these guys to reduce and concentrate their sweet, tart goodness. The crust was disappointing due to being cracker thin - I find such crusts lack both taste and texture.

Rachel’s risotto was definitely good, although there was barely any salmon flavor in it. Not worth the extra euros, we decided. But, salmon or not, the creamy, silky, heavenly godfood that is risotto absolutely must be sampled in its country of origin.

La Taverna del Ghetto

Of the dozen or so kosher restaurants in Rome’s Jewish Ghetto, La Taverna del Ghetto is the most expensive. It also supposedly has a reputation among tourists in general, not just the Jewish ones. Neither of these convinced me that La Taverna would have the best food, but they did convince me to save it for Monday night, Rachel’s birthday.

While we enjoyed her birthday, the food itself did not justify the price nor the reputation. Our meal began with a waitress bringing out an incredibly odd appetizer - a plate containing a portion of bean stew with... two shards of matzah (straight out of the box). In the words of the less tactful Israeli couple sitting next to us, since it wasn’t Pesach what business did they have serving us Matzah?
This question would never be answered. However, I did order a real appetizer - another salt cod dish, this time baked with raisins and some other tasty things I can’t recall. Rachel and I shared this dish and enjoyed it, although it wasn’t as elegant an application of cod as was the previous day’s soup. The fish had a good texture, and it wasn’t too salty, but at the same time there wasn’t much flavor present other than the salt.

For our main course, I ordered the lamb with garlic and parsley (“Jewish style”), while Rachel ordered the bucatini (that’s thick spaghetti with a hollow center) with a meat sauce. The pasta, as was all our subsequent pasta in Rome, was cooked perfectly, and had less sauce and meat than one would expect by American standards. The lamb was tasty, but I found myself searching for meat among the bones, as I often do when eating lamb. And when I say tasty, I mean in the unremarkable sort of way.

We wanted to order tiramisu for dessert, but they were out of that. In fact, they were out of everything other than pistachio torte. It was probably just as well that we didn’t have to suffer through a bland foux-dairy tiramisu, and the pistachio torte was actually delicious. Between that torte and a pistachio gelato that we had twice, I’d say Italy is a fine place for that little green nut.

Ba Ghetto Milky

Ba Ghetto is a meat restaurant, and Ba Ghetto Milky is its dairy sister. Both are usually pretty crowded, which is often the best sign for quality. Here we once again ordered the fried artichoke, as well as a dish of anchovies and spinach.

The fried artichoke was a dud. The leaves were ok, but the inside was full of that dastardly artichoke fuzz that cannot be eaten (I’ve since learned that it will accumulate inside your insides and create a bezoar... yeah, I also thought bezoars only existed in Harry Potter...).

But, oh the anchovies! They were fresh, not canned and smelly. Combined with the cooked spinach and dripping with good olive oil and salt, the fish was full of flavor, meaty texture, and unctuous oils. In case you haven’t gotten the message, the thing to order in Rome is fish!

For entrees, I ordered gnocchi with a tomato sauce and gooey mozzarella, while Rachel ordered pasta with mushrooms, cheese and truffles. The resulting explosion of umami delighted Rachel at first, but eventually got the best of her. Good thing I was there to finish the job. The gnocchi was comfort food to the max - carbs loaded with sauce and cheese. I’d actually never really had it before, only read about it. It was indeed soft and pillowy (the most popular adjective used to describe gnocchi, by the way), with just enough chew.

Here we got some real tiramisu for dessert and, although the portion was small, it was delicious, especially alongside one of those teeny tiny espressos.

A note pertaining to all these restaurants: you get charged for bread, so if you don’t want to pay for it, don’t ask for it and if they bring it out tell them you don’t want it. Water might be free, but you definitely pay for it when it comes with “gas” (carbonated). We loved the water with gas, and were perfectly happy to spend a little extra to dine with bubbles.

Ba Ghetto Meat

This restaurant gets a truncated review, because I really don’t remember much of what we ate here. The food wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t memorable, and that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? I remember Rachel ordered a totally ordinary vegetable soup, and we each ate some kind of pasta as a main course. The pasta was cooked perfectly, and contained some salty meat and tomatoes, but I don’t remember exactly. It is as boring for me to think about as it is for you to read about.

Pane al Pane

We went to this bakery three times; once to get rolls, once to have breakfast, and once for pizza. I wish we’d gotten the pizza all three times. In fact, the only thing stopping me from ordering pizza for breakfast on the second visit was the fear that I’d be committing a major faux pas. Turns out the joke was on me, because after settling on a pastry for my morning repast, I saw subsequent patrons walking away with those very slices my eyes had coveted!

Pane al Pane bakes pizza in large, oval pies on a crust that is thin, but still chewy and flavorful. They sell it by weight, which I think is marvelous. You are totally free to deviate from the standard slice unit; you can order a lot, a little, or something in between. You can order a piece with lots of crust or barely any. Ultimate flexibility. I imagine this is how pizza is sold all over Rome (probably Italy in general), but I’m not sure. We picked four different toppings to taste, and enjoyed every single one.

First was a mushroom pizza, which, with tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese and mushrooms, was the closest of the four to a standard American slice.

Next was a pizza with some kind of cheese and thin dry strips of salty anchovies (maybe there was some kind of vegetable too, but I just remember the fish). I don’t know why the Ninja Turtles hated them, but we both liked them.

Third was Rachel’s favorite: a pie with white, round, ultra-thin slices of potato with a tiny bit of cheese. We weren’t even sure what it was until we tasted it, but it was decidedly fantastic. The thing is, starch-on-starch pizza doesn’t sound so good in theory. It seems heavy and unappetizing. I’ve only seen such pizzas executed in a clumsy and hideous fashion - I’m thinking of the baked ziti pizza at the place back home.. ugh. But with this pie the creamy potato contrasts the chewy crust, plus there isn’t much potato to begin with. I can’t wait to recreate it at home.

The fourth pizza was covered with what I thought was broccoli, and I took a big bite. The next instant I experienced one of the most intense tastes of my life, easily my most vivid food memory from all of Italy. The pizza was covered not with broccoli, but with roasted Italian chilies. The heat of the chilies hit me like an electric shock, but it was the good kind of heat - full of vinegar, sweetness, and smoky char. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Rome: Thursday

Thursday morning included an interesting conversation with Pasquale about a Dan-Brown-esque book he was reading, about a Jew during the time of the Second Beit Hamikdash. Interfaith dialogue! (Assuming Pasquale isn’t Jewish, and has a faith). Then, it was off to the MAXXI, Rome’s museum of contemporary art.

For those of you not in the know, contemporary art is modern art that is so modern that it is called “contemporary” instead. I think. By the way, I love contemporary art. I don’t really get it, but I am under the impression that it’s not supposed to be gotten in the first place. Whatever the rules are, to me contemporary art is just cool, crazy stuff to look at. Maybe that’s all there is to it. The MAXXI was definitely full of cool, crazy stuff, and sometimes signs on the wall even tried to explain it! They definitely didn’t read the rules.

In other words, it’s a great museum and I recommend it. The building is built with wild curves, walkways flung high into the air, and big dramatic windows and things. To try and recall individual pieces of art would be a fruitless and yawnful endeavor. All I can say is that the art was sufficiently big, colorful, wacky and exciting. My one favorite piece was a square panel of like a hundred metallic half domes. You look at it, and then when you get closer you realize that they are mirrors and you see a hundred little warped images of yourself.

Not far from the museum, there is a concert hall designed by Renzo Piano, which Rachel wanted to see. Concert halls are good destinations when visiting a new city. Obviously, going to a concert is the best way to experience a concert hall, but you can also just walk around and look at them during the day. At least that’s been my experience in LA, Tel Aviv, and here. In between the three main buildings there is a very cool outdoor stage with seating around in a semicircle, like an amphitheater.
Our last tourist spot was a visit to a pyramid built as a tribute to the more famous ones in Egypt. There’s a reason they are more famous; the Roman one is kind of small and unimpressive. After the pyramid, we had our last Roman meal (some awesome pizza), packed our bags, and took an early evening train back to the airport.

All in all, a wonderful vacation.

Rome: Wednesday

The Vatican was the main item on the day’s schedule, but that wasn’t until the afternoon, which left plenty of time to sleep late, meander back to the bakery, and enjoy a leisurely breakfast of pastries, tea for Rachel and cappuccino for me. Speaking of cappuccino, I’d like to tangentially discuss my experience with coffee in Rome.

I am not a huge fan of espresso. For me, a good cup of coffee is both functional (it delivers sufficient caffeine) and tasty. I definitely find some cups more tasty than others; for example, I find freshly ground, mild roasts extremely tasty, darker roasts less tasty, instant coffee even less tasty, and stale, old pre-ground coffee decidedly not tasty. Sadly, though, I am mildly addicted to the stuff, and I will happily drink a not tasty cup as long as it is still functional.

Before visiting Italy, nearly all my straight-up-espresso experience came from Israel, the land that is still largely unaware of real brewed coffee (another discussion). The worst Israeli espressos are very bitter and dirt-like, with no redeeming flavors, and the best are still pretty bitter at first, but sometimes develop more pleasant flavors. They are never as bad as a cup brewed from stale grounds, since they are almost always made from freshly ground beans. But they are still much more bitter than I’d like. As far as caffeine goes, a single shot has only a puny amount. A double is a little better, but I swear it’s still not nearly as strong as a good old cup of joe.

Still, I was excited to try espresso in Rome. Italians invented the espresso, and the art of pulling a good espresso is known to be cherished and perfected by Italian baristas (although you might find some of the world’s best baristas in Seattle). My thinking was: Israeli espressos are bad because Israeli baristas don’t put any thought into making them. Besides, almost no Israelis actually drink straight espressos, whereas many Italians do. Conclusion? I’d be sure to find great espressos in Rome.

Over the course of our trip, I drank about 6 to 8 espressos. They all tasted more or less the same. They were, admittedly, a little better than the average Israeli espresso. But I was expecting a drink that had a rich, complex flavor... and all I got was a drink that was still basically bitter and flat. Sitting on a cobbled Roman street enhanced the effect, but the flavor was unexceptional. More importantly, though, they were TINY, maybe an ounce of liquid. My cappuccino was slightly bigger, but still very small. These drinks were mere drops in my caffeine-collecting bucket. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I couldn’t wait to get back to Israel for a cup of my cheap Elite instant coffee.

Now for the disclaimers. First, I always ordered single, rather than double espressos, because I didn’t know how and forgot to look it up and was too embarrassed to order in English. This may or may not have solved the lack of caffeine issue. Second, I realize that drinking several espressos over the course of the day, as Italians do, may accomplish the same thing as a large up in the morning. Third, I didn’t do any research regarding where to get really good espressos (we planned our trip in two hurried days, and internet was inaccessible for the majority of the trip itself). It’s unrealistic to expect that every barista in Rome pulls amazing espressos merely because he is Italian. It’s like pizza in NY, felafel in Israel, or any other regional treat. On a whole, quality is good because the ingredients are high quality and good techniques are in general practice, but to really get something delicious, you have to go to someone who applies care and skill to make it delicious. Most of the baristas who made me espresso were doing their jobs. They were making coffee the way they knew how, but didn’t necessarily have the will or the skill to make coffee that impressed me. Next time Rachel and I go to Italy (yes, I think there will be such a time), I will do my homework, and find those baristas.

Anyway, back to the vacation.

After breakfast we hopped on the Metro and exited across the Tiber, near the Vatican. After passing by the Castel Sant’Angelo area, we made our way down the Via della Conciliazione, a large boulevard that leads directly to the Piazza San Pietro, the enormous round plaza in front of St. Peter’s Basilica.

It seems superfluous to say that we “felt” like we were entering the headquarters of worldwide Christianity, because we actually were. I say “felt”, however, because despite the constant visual reminders one encounters on the street in Rome - churches galore, clergy of all stripes, and numerous stores selling what I can only describe as “Christaica” (crosses, figurines, candles and the like) - they represent merely a quantitative, rather than qualitative, increase in the density of something already familiar to two American Jews.

Approaching and entering the Vatican, however, brought about a palpable change. It was as if we’d been walking past a neighbor’s house every day of our lives, but only now step foot inside. I can’t speak for Rachel, but for the first and only time on our trip, and in a way that I don’t remember happening anywhere else, I truly felt like an outsider, a visitor.

In the midst of these meditations on personal identity, it began to rain. We had reached the rendezvous point for our tour, where everyone was huddled against the side of a building under the only available protection - a thing overhang. Stupidly, I bought a flimsy pink umbrella for 5 euro from one of the opportunistic merchants who had sprung up after the first drop. A fellow tourist subsequently told me that I could have given him anything, even far lower than this asking price, and the umbrella would have been mine. But before we had much time to brood on this loss, the tour guide arrived and we hurried indoors.

The tour guide was fantastic. She spoke into a microphone and each of us received a headset; this way we could hear clearly her among the crowds in the Vatican museum. She was never boring, even though she fed us a constant stream of information. And she must have been really smart, because she had a British accent. Finally, she convinced the ticket agent to let me in at the student price, despite my having forgotten my student ID in our room.

I am writing this post nearly two months after our trip, so it is hard to remember all the details of what we saw in the museum. That’s ok, because no one wants to read all the details anyway; that is what the internet is for. Instead, here is a bulleted list of cool highlights:

• The Sistine Chapel. This is what excites most tourists, and Rachel was no exception, especially since she was, at the time, in the middle of a historical fiction novel about the life of Michelangelo. While it was actually the second to last stop on the tour, we got our Sistine Chapel debriefing at the beginning. Our guide showed us large color photos of the various panels we’d be seeing, and told us the scenes being depicted in each one. I forgot many of them by the time we got there, but I was able to remember a few, like Yonah and the whale. Like many Orthodox shuls, the Chapel is a place that is supposed to be quiet, but instead is filled with the noise of lots of people quietly talking and the occasional shushing. As a former art student and a current Michelangelo fan, Rachel had a serious appreciation for the Sistine Chapel. The only thing that really struck me was how the entire inner surface - walls and ceiling - was covered in frescoes. It made me think of a person whose entire body is covered in tatoos.
• Tons of Greek and Roman statues. For a religion that is supposedly against paganism, the Vatican sure has a lot of statues depicting pagan gods. Not being Catholic, this lapse in dogma didn’t really bother us. It was a great chance to see ancient Greek and Roman sculpture in both marble and bronze, more than I’ve ever seen in a museum.
• Busts. Statues lite.
• Ancient mosaics. One was nearly 2,000 years old, and we were still allowed to walk on it.
• Bling. By “bling”, I do not refer to any one piece of artwork, but simply to the fact that every shred of the Vatican museum is made of of precious materials - marble, gold, silver, precious stones, you name it. The ceilings are gilded and painted, the walls and floors polished and decorated with elaborate carvings and such. A lot of money has flowed into this place over the years, folks.
• Tapestries. Really big and old and colorful.
• “The School of Athens”. Really famous fresco by Raphael. The painter, not the Ninja Turtle.
• Modern art I was not expecting. Including a painting by Salvador Dali
• Maps from like 400 years ago.

The tour ended at St Peter’s Basilica. If it hasn’t been mentioned by this point, we didn’t have any compunctions about going into churches, so we poked our heads into St. Peter’s. I don’t have much to comment on, other than its enormous size. The place is like an airplane hanger, but with stained glass. Rachel went to look at Michelangelo’s Pieta, and then I started to get uncomfortable lingering inside a church that looked like it was built for giants. Plus my feet were hurting. On the way out, we took a gander at the ridiculously dressed Swiss Guards of the Vatican. Did you know that being good looking is part of their job description? I’m serious. Rachel thought they were so so.

By the end of the tour, it was early afternoon, and we decided to try out a kosher restaurant in the southern part of Trestevere, near a street called Viale Guglielmo Marconi. We rode a bus down along the river, and then started off on foot. We crossed the river, only to find ourselves walking along a very sketchy looking road. Lots of tires and stuff were for sale. We were following the map, but the neighborhoods remained rather sketchy, and when we reached our final destination, the restaurant was closed.

Fortunately, there was a tram nearby, which brought us back to the familiar Ghetto, and a late lunch/early dinner. The evening was lost, however, because as soon as we finished it started to pour. We scampered to a bus stop and by the time we got off at our bed and breakfast it was coming down in buckets. By 8:30 PM we were stuck in our room with a storm outside, and no functioning TV, computer, or even wireless internet for Rachel’s iPod. Fortunately, we were exhausted, and we got ourselves a good night’s sleep.

Rome: Tuesday

We set off to an early start, due to a 9 AM reservation at the Gallery Borghese. This was the highlight of the trip, at least for Rachel, because it contained Bernini’s David, the sculpture she loves and prefers even to Michelangelo’s, but had only seen in pictures. The gallery had a number of Bernini’s most famous sculptures, and I could easily see why Rachel (and everyone else) loves them so much. The marble took on these unbelievable textures. A man’s arm looked tough and sinewy, while a woman’s might be soft and fleshy. Leaves and feathers looked light and delicate, as if they were about to fly away. The figures were full of movement, and their faces full of expression. It was hard to believe they were all carved out of stone.

The gallery itself is housed in a huge, grand mansion. Every square inch of the place was decorated - the floors with mosaics, the walls covered with paintings and frescoes, and lined with statues and busts, and the largest sculptures in the center. We had bought an audio tour, and we listed to as many items as we could, but there was a lot there. There were only about ten rooms total, but there were so many things to see that it couldn’t be captured all in one trip.

Afterwards, we strolled a bit in the big public garden in which the gallery is located, and by the afternoon we hopped on the Metro to see the Colosseum and the Roman Forum. The coolest thing about the Colosseum is that when you step out of the Metro and see it, you realize it’s the same size as a real, 20-21th century stadium, despite the fact that it was built 2,000 years ago. The lines to get into the Colosseum were pretty colossal in their own right, but with our Roma Passes we got to skip the line.

Walking around the Colosseum was fun in of itself. They have reproduced a section of the actual arena, and as we walked high above, we saw one of the staff members walk out onto it, giving a good perspective as to what the gladiators must have looked like from high above. The whole thing is just large and impressive. However, there is very little actual information to read as you go along. We had an audio tour, which was good, but the best way to go about it is to join an actual tour led by a guide. Guides give more information, and are more interesting.

The Roman Forum was a bust. We didn’t buy an audio tour, and once again there was nothing to read. We walked around, looking at ruins, but we had no idea what we were looking at. We made a point of finding the Arch of Titus, where we could see the famous relief depicting the looting of the Beit Hamikdash. It was weird to see the image, which I recognized from photos, in real life.

We thought maybe we’d seek out some nightlife after dinner, but when the time came, we found that all the day’s walking had caught up with us. With sore feet and full stomachs, we aborted our search, hopped on the bus, and retired for the evening.

Rome: Monday

In the morning, we explored the neighborhood to the north and east of our B&B. Moments after we set out, we received our first lesson in crossing Roman streets. Most streets, even big busy ones, usually don’t have traffic lights at the crosswalks. We stood waiting to cross Via Nomentana, wondering if there would ever be a break in the steady stream of zooming vehicles.

Then, divine intervention. We heard a voice behind us babbling away in Italian, and we turned to see a very tiny old nun, clad in white, gesturing excitedly with her hands. With no hesitation, she strode out into the street, holding her hand out as she walked to stop the traffic. With the sea thus split before us, we Children of Israel crossed through on dry land.

Our destinations were a kosher bakery and a kosher supermarket, but first we stopped to eat breakfast (muffins I hastily baked hours before leaving to catch our flight) in a park. Kids were playing soccer and some adults were sitting and watching. The sound of a whistle made us think it was some kind of informal day camp. We people-watched and I even punted back a soccer ball that had escaped in our direction.

The bakery was quite a find - lots of breads and pastries, as well as pizza. We wouldn’t get to taste the pizza until the last day, but the rolls we bought there were crusty and fresh. The staff was very friendly, and recognized us (switching to English) upon future visits. The best part was that the store was clean and classy; it looked more like an Upper East Side overpriced boutique bakery than... well, what you’d expect a kosher bakery to look like.

The kosher supermarket was kind of small and deserted, but it dealt some good delicatessen. We bought some mozzarella, and two packages of salami, one regular and one hard. Although I’m reserving restaurant reviews for their own posts, I’ll review the cheese and meat here. We didn’t have any condiments, so we just made plain sandwiches on bakery bread, huge chunks of cheese on one day and huge piles of meat the next. The cheese was softer and creamier than your typical kosher-pizza-mozz. It had less of that cheesy tang, but more of a milky flavor. It was good mozzarella, and we both liked it. If we had put that amount of kosher-pizza-mozz in a sandwich, it would have been overwhelming, but with this kind it was just right. At the same time, foods normally made with the other mozz might have tasted bland with this one.

When we opened the hard salami, the smell of funk leapt out and hugged our nostrils. This was the real deal, folks, serious Italian cured charcuterie. The kind that you can smell from the sidewalk outside the store housing them. It was sliced super thin, and had a shiny, almost waxy and chewy texture. The flavor was the same as the aroma, only amplified and with added saltiness.

In case you can’t tell, the funky stuff was my personal favorite, and a sandwich of it, plus regular salami on a hard roll with a cold beer provided a memorable lunch for yours truly. Rachel was not as crazy about the extreme flavors, and preferred the regular stuff. Nevertheless, both our sandwiches were packed with flavor, despite their containing no condiments whatsoever.

Back to Monday. By the time we were eating the aforementioned lunch, we were sitting on the banks of the Tiber, just us and the river. At every bridge crossing the Tiber, there is a flight of about 20 steps down to the level of the river itself, where walkways line both banks. At night these would be filled with stalls and pedestrians, but in the early afternoon we had it to ourselves.

That afternoon we checked out the Jewish Museum, an old Spanish Synagogue and the newer Great Synagogue. Both seemed to attract lots of Jewish tourists, but our conclusion was that of all that we’d seen of Jewish Rome - the Ghetto, the museum and the two synagogues - the only really noteworthy experience was seeing the Great Synagogue. The museum does contain Judaica that is 500 years old and well preserved, but it’s not unlike the things you’ve probably seen before at other Judaica museums. The guide who led groups through the two synagogues was not particularly engaging, and her non-native English kept the information to a minimum.

But the Great Synagogue is a sight to see. Designed by a Christian architect (since Jews were still not allowed, as of 100 years ago, to practice architecture in Rome), it’s a massive shrine, with a lofty ceiling, decked out with marble columns and gilded in gold. I embellish, of course, but it was truly one gorgeous ‘gogue. Even more fun than seeing it was davening mincha/maariv in it the next day before dinner. Security, tighter than an El Al check in line, was conducted by the shamash, who wore a dour black robe with a silver shamash sign hung round his neck. Once the congregation of (mostly) tourists had gathered inside, the mustachioed chazzan strode out, also clad in black and sporting a hexagonal cantorial hat. He had a menacing face, and he cast his gaze about the room icily. He started the davening, but kept clearing his throat loudly, trying to catch the attention of the shamash, who was circling through the synagogue, tending to things. When the shamash’s attention was finally caught, the chazzan whispered something into his ear. Promptly, the shamash began making his way through the male congregants, picking out those who were wearing shorts, and sending them to the back. Apparently, this dress code violation is pretty common, for in the back was a pile of plastic pants that could be pulled over one’s clothing, and the tourists complied. Lesson learned - shul snobbery is the factor that unifies all denominations.

The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting sights near the Ghetto, like the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, and other assorted squares, statues and fountains. Inside the Pantheon was a solid mass of tourists, but that didn’t matter because the main attraction is the high, huge, domed ceiling with a circular window at the apex. We found out later that the window is open to the air, and there’s a drain system in the floor to handle rain. Not sure how they handle bird poop..

In the center of Piazza Navona is a fountain sculpted by Bernini, Rachel’s favorite sculptor of all time. It features four men, each one representing a major river. Wikipedia says that they are the Danube, Nile, Ganges and Plate, representing Europe, Africa, Asia and America, respectively (I guess Bernini didn’t know about the Amazon or the Mississippi). The idea is that no matter how far you travel, you are still under the authority of the Pope. I guess if you make it to Australia or Antarctica, you’re good to flaunt his authority.

The joke about the man covering is face (the Nile) is that he is facing a building designed by one of Bernini’s rivals, so the face covering is meant as an insult. The official reason is that, at the time, the source of the Nile river was unknown. Aw, remember when the world was all young and innocent and unexplored and mysterious and we didn’t even know where the Nile came from?

In honor of Rachel’s birthday, we ate at the fancy Taverna del Ghetto. Behind us was a middle aged Israeli couple. As we read the menu, another middle aged Israeli couple sat down beside us. We made some small talk, and the waiter brought menus to couple #2. The husband took one look at the menu and said, in Hebrew “How am I supposed to understand this?” He and his wife asked for Hebrew menus. While the waiter went to find someone who spoke Hebrew, couple #1’s food arrived - schnitzel and chips (fries). “How’s the schnitzel and chips?” asked couple #2. “Great!” said couple #1. When the waiter returned to couple #2 they informed him they didn’t need to see the menu; they both wanted schnitzel and chips.

This was at the fanciest kosher restaurant in Rome. Rachel and I are like 75% sure that, at least the schnitzel was made from frozen Of Tov schnitzel imported from Israel. Lesson learned - some people like to try new things, some people don’t.

After dinner we went back down to the banks of the Tiber, where the various stalls were in full force. The first stalls we passed were unremarkable, selling cheap jewlery and touristy stuff. As we got farther in, though, they gave way to stalls that were outdoor bars and restaurants, setting up tables, chairs, and couches all over the sidewalk. Some of these setups featured elaborate furniture, lighting, and themed paraphernalia. One had an Italian film going. Another was sponsored by a car company and had a car out there, like in the mall. Other stalls had caged areas for basketball and other sports. We took in our share of all the variety and weirdness, then turned back, took one last look at the river, and went home.

Rome: Sunday

Although it only takes about three hours to fly between Israel and Italy, the door-to-door trip is a slightly longer ordeal. We left our apartment around 11 PM to catch an 11:30 PM bus to the train station, where a 12:40 AM train awaited. Around 2 AM we entered the airport, yawning, to find that it was as packed with people as we’ve ever seen it. None of them seemed tired, and I suggested to Rachel that maybe we should inform them that it was the middle of the night, but she didn’t think this was a good idea.

At this point, my memory becomes hazy. I believe we were sitting at the gate by around 3:30, and the plane finally took off by 5. By 8:45 Italy time we were in the Rome airport, bags in hand, waiting for 9:00, when the office selling our Roma Passes would open.

At 9 AM we witnessed a scene one would never see in Israel. The clerks entered the office, turned on the lights and their computers and – get this – opened the doors and let the customers in. If you’ve ever waited outside an Israeli post office, government office, or anything of the sort, you know the frustration of watching the clerks sit there behind the door for 10, 15 minutes, not letting you in until the very second they have to, or later. They do this all the time. So it was really nice to see those doors open so quickly.

Passes purchased, we boarded a shuttle bus from the airport to the main transit hub in central Rome, Termini. Along the way we met a chatty lady from Texas who was traveling with her less chatty husband and seven children. They were going to hit all the big religious sites before embarking upon a Christian cruise around the Mediterranean. I’d never heard of a Christian cruise before, but from what this lady described, it sounded like a Kosher cruise, only with more religious substance.

To get to our B&B, we needed to take one last bus from Termini, and since we didn’t want to activate our Roma Passes until Tuesday, we needed to buy real tickets. We knew that we were supposed to both buy and validate our tickets by ourselves. Rachel bought the tickets from a stall near the buses, but we couldn’t figure out how to validate them. We boarded the bus anyway, where a guy showed us the machine in the bus where people dip their cards and validate them.

It’s worth mentioning that the Rome bus system seems quite easy to take advantage of. The drivers don’t enforce squat, and it seemed like the only people actually validating their tickets were tourists. Presumably someone does periodic checks (like they do on the express buses in NY where you also pay outside the bus), but we never saw any.

Meanwhile, the guy who helped us validate our tickets chatted with us (mostly Rachel, really) along the ride. He turned out to be the first of two Egyptians we’d meet over our trip. This is a good time to point out that when people asked where we were from, we said New York and Philadelphia if they were strangers, and only Israel if we felt comfortable. Rome doesn’t have a particularly anti-Semitic reputation, but you never know.

Our B&B was in a building with giant, heavy Medieval-looking doors, behind which stood a giant, heavy Medieval-looking iron gate, which led into a hall with an iron, Medieval-looking elevator. We skipped the elevator, and thankfully the B&B itself was decidedly modern, albeit small. It looked like an IKEA display setup.

Our host, Pasquale, was not in. Instead, we were greeted by his enthusiastic, non-English-speaking Italian friend. Let’s just call him Antonio, since I don’t remember his name; I probably forgot to ask. Despite the fact that he was technically speaking Italian, Antonio communicated largely with his hands, which did a good job explaining concepts such as keys and such. For my own part, I quickly found that using Spanish as a substitute for Italian was surprisingly successful. Before long, I was fairly convinced I understood Italian and spoke it fluently.

By now, it was nearly 11 AM, and we had been traveling for almost 12 hours. Excited to explore this new exotic city, we promptly collapsed on the bed and took a nap. Three hours later, excited to explore this new exotic city, we set off on foot.

The center of Rome is surrounded by the Aurelian walls, and our B&B was right outside them. Most cities today are sprawling masses that peter out towards the suburbs and, therefore, approaching the city is less of a grand entrance than a gradual change. The real metropolis of Rome is no different, of course, but in our case entering through the wall provided a dramatic transition.

Inside the walls, Rome’s buildings are low, and its streets are wide and clean. There are no signs of urban decay, and little congestion. In other words, it’s a space that doesn’t play by the usual rules of the city. This is due to strict limitations; for example, buildings are technically not allowed to be taller than St. Peter’s Basilica. As we walked down Via 20 Settembre (named for September 20, 1870 when Rome was captured as the final stage of Italy’s unification), the choir music ringing out of the churches brought the architecture to life.

These exaggerated impressions would, of course, later be tempered with reality: not all of Rome is a pristine museum of a city. Later in the week we would find ourselves south of Trastevere, on the other side of the river, unsuccessfully seeking a kosher restaurant. The neighborhood we did find, as well as the neighborhoods we passed through on the train to our return flight, assured us that Rome has its fair share of dirty, high rise filled, graffiti touched urban landscapes.

We spent the mid afternoon hours strolling through the streets, heading towards the Jewish Ghetto, where food and a 6 PM tour awaited. On this first day of our trip, we were trying very hard to fit in and not look like tourists. That meant that we had to be very surreptitious about opening up our map in public, lest we Give Ourselves Away. It was also why we didn’t bring any sneakers, shorts, or baseball caps.

If you’re going to Rome, do yourself a favor and bring sneakers. Especially if you’re going in the summer, when the streets are full of tourists anyway. Your feet will thank you.

By the time we had strolled, gazed and photographed our way to the Ghetto, we had worked up an appetite, and so we sat down to a hearty not-quite-lunch, not-quite-dinner 4:30 PM meal at Nonna Betta (I will be writing restaurant reviews separately), after which we met up with our tour group in front of the Largo di Torre Argentina. The tour was led by Floridian expat whose tattoos and dyed, dangerously styled hair made her look like that Goth character from Empire Records. Thankfully, though, she was bubbly and not morose at all. She gave what was essentially a walking tour that started outside the Ghetto, passed through it, and finished up over in Trastevere. She was no dummy, but the information she conveyed at each stop seemed somewhat superficial – especially in the Jewish Ghetto, where we more or less came away with the following knowledge: Jews lived in the Ghetto for a long time, it was cramped and smelly, and they weren’t allowed to enter or leave after sunset.

Still, the tour was overall pretty good as an introduction to Rome. We learned that a lot of the ruins in Rome were caused by men, not nature. That is, for a long time there was little of our modern appreciation for history and ancient structures. Buildings were, essentially, recycled and their materials used to build new ones. This was true of ancient temples, and even the Colosseum.

As the tour ended and night fell, we tried to navigate a path back to the B&B that would swing us past a place with kosher gelato (of course). I promptly got us lost, and given our mounting exhaustion, we hopped into a cab which took us to the Palazzo di Quirinale, a quiet, moonlit square. We zigzagged through some alleys to emerge into the roaring noise of the Trevi Fountain. 10% of the noise came from the rushing water and the other 90% came from the flock of tourists that formed a protective layer around the entire perimeter of the fountain, making picture opportunities all but impossible, let alone a decent appreciation for what is a truly fine sculpture and fountain.

Inside the gelato place, we asked if the gelato was kosher. The server pointed us to a sign on the wall, and proceeded to refer to me henceforth as Mr. Kosher. The sign had a list of flavors, a la Baskin Robbins or Ben & Jerry’s, that were certified (most were). After buying some healthy portions of hazelnut, pistachio, honey and caramel, we swiftly and successfully negotiated for bathroom use.

Side note: If you’re walking around Rome and need to use the bathroom, pretty much your only option is to find a food establishment of some sort that has one, and buy something. I recommend espresso, which is only 1 euro.

After indulging our sweet teeth, we hopped on the bus, headed back, and called it a day.

Ikea Log

July 20

We bought 2 bookshelves for about 800 shek. The delivery people wanted to deliver it the following week, but we were traveling to Italy. After some haggling (because how dare we go on vacation and ask for a later shipping date, right?), they agreed to delay the shipping to July 31. The cost of shipping was 200 shek. We are told to expect a text telling us in what time range to expect delivery.

July 31

No text, no delivery.

Aug 1

I called Ikea; on hold for 20 minutes. Eventually someone told me that the shipment had been pushed off by another week, and to expect the delivery on Aug 10-11 (by the way, since when is 10 or 11 days a week?). I should expect to receive a text.

Aug 10-11

No text, no delivery

Tues or Wed the following week

Rachel calls Ikea, on hold for 20 minutes. Someone eventually told her that really, no question, the delivery will arrive Thursday or Friday this week. She’ll get a text.

Thurs, Aug 18

Still no text. Rachel calls again, on hold for 20 minutes. She is told it might come Friday, but if not, Sunday at the latest.

Sun, Aug 21

No text, no delivery

Tues, Aug 23

I call customer service, sit on hold for 10 minutes and get hung up on. I call again and get through. Rep asks me for a delivery ID number. Note: this is the first time either of us was asked for anything other than our names and phone numbers. I don’t have this number, and she can’t track down the delivery details, although she sees in the system that we did indeed buy the shelves.

Eventually she digs up the delivery number and realizes that the item is essentially lost. She tells me Ikea will open up an internal inquiry to settle the issue. Someone will definitely get back to me... within 72 hours. I lose it. Eventually she promises someone will get back to me within 24 hours instead.

I ask if they have the item in stock, and she says yes. I ask why she can’t simply ship it to me now and she explains that she is in the Netanya customer service center, and has nothing to do with the actual store. I ask to be transfered to the store and she tells me they don’t take phone calls from customer service.

I give up.

Wed Aug 24

Customer service gets in touch with us and promises to ship us new identical items through Ikea’s own delivery people (not the company that lost our original stuff). We each spoke to someone different; a woman told me we’d be refunded for delivery and asked for my credit card info. I told them to call Rachel, and they never did.

It seems we were finally, partially, successful. We’re still holding our breath until our items are actually in our home, in the color that we asked for. I think there’s a 50% chance someone will make good on the refund.