A Girl and Her Fork
To know Italy, you have to eat your way through it. And on my recent trip to the heart of it all — Rome, Florence, and Venice — I devoured every bite with the gusto of an Italian-American woman on a mission. A mission to eat well, often, and unapologetically. Here are some of my highlights.
Rome: Carbonara and Chaos I’d Happily Eat My Way Through Again
Rome greets you like an old friend — chaotic, beautiful, and always with something delicious around every corner. My first stop? Beppe and His Cheeses, a salumeria tucked in a quiet side street not far from the Trevi Fountain, for a plate of hand-selected cured meats and exquisite cheeses, paired with the perfect glass of red wine. It was more meat than I’ve had in six months, but it was delicious and worth the temporary spike in my cholesterol.
Mornings began with cornetti and doppi espressi (croissants and double espressos), standing shoulder to shoulder with locals at the bar, listening to the low hum of espresso machines and lively chatter.
At Pecorino, a neighborhood trattoria tucked into Testaccio, I tried all four of the classic Roman pastas — carbonara, cacio e pepe, amatriciana, and pasta alla gricia. We met up with newly ex-pat friends who gladly shared the meal, so it wasn’t all for me, although I was fully prepared to order all of them for myself. You experience this for the first time once in your life, and I was not about to eat demurely and responsibly and risk missing out on quite possibly the best pasta I’ve ever had. They were all delicious, but the carbonara was silky, unapologetically eggy, and flecked with perfectly crispy guanciale. Not a drop of cream in sight — just pecorino, egg yolks, and a skilled chef in the kitchen.
For something lighter, we hit a seafood-forward wine bar in Trastevere called Enoteca L’Antidoto. It felt instantly familiar — like we’d wandered off the street and into a chic little spot in hipster Williamsburg, Brooklyn. We were greeted with a “fish cooler” in the dining room — a stainless steel and glass affair the size of a wine fridge, with perfect temperature and humidity controls. Hanging on the center hook was the lower half of a 200-pound bonito tuna from Sicily. On the shelves were sgombro (mackerel), seppia (cuttlefish), and pesce spada (swordfish). We had crudo of that very bonito with chive blossoms and a spicy dipping sauce, lightly seared mackerel with preserved lemon aioli, and a bottle of rosado that was fresh, light, fruity, and the perfect go-with.
Florence: Bistecca, Markets, and a Respect for Simplicity
As ornate and over-the-top as Renaissance and Baroque architecture is in Florence, the food is exquisitely understated, proving not only that less is more, but that less is really all you need. There’s almost a defiance to the cooking of Tuscany — marked by simplicity, quality of the ingredients, and attention to preparation. It's like they’re saying, “I dare you to put a sauce on this lombatina di vitello alla griglia (grilled veal chop),” which was plainly served with a lemon wedge. It helps that another set of ex-pat friends — teachers of philosophy and Renaissance art at the University of Florence — were tight with many of the restaurant owners. Grateful on many levels, not least of which is that my Italian is not molto buono.
At Buca Lapi, Florence’s oldest restaurant, they’ve been making bistecca alla fiorentina — a thick porterhouse steak from a special breed of cattle, the Chianina — for generations. The waiter did not ask how we liked our meat, and yet I felt no need to state my preference. It arrived to the table just perfect — charred on the outside, ruby rare inside, seasoned with nothing but salt and the confidence of centuries.
But it wasn’t just the steak. The markets were amazing. Wandering through Mercato Centrale, I made a beeline for Da Nerbone for the famous tripe sandwich that I’d been dreaming of for years. Lampredotto — tender and fragrant braised tripe from a cow’s fourth stomach — is not for the squeamish if you translate it into English. My husband happily had the porchetta sandwich — yummy, but not as good.
Venice: Spritzes, Salt Air, and the Soft Whisper of the Sea
Venice was utterly magical — a shaded, romantic maze of tight, curving alleyways and canals, with bàcari — wine bars serving small plates — at every corner. I grazed my way through cicchetti — Venice’s answer to tapas — sipping Aperol or Cynar — my favorite — spritzes and nibbling on marinated sardines, tender baby octopus, and creamy baccalà mantecato (creamy salt cod spread) on grilled polenta. It was easy to get quite tipsy and full after hitting two or three bàcari.
Aside from the chic seafood wine bar in Rome, we held off eating seafood until we got to Venice, where dinner was always a love letter to the sea: spaghetti alle vongole, briny and shimmering with olive oil, and pesce fritto misto (fried mixed seafood) with a batter so light and delicate it dissolved in your mouth. At Corte Sconta — recommended by yet another ex-pat friend living in Venice — we had more tuna crudo from another Sicilian bonito — this time lightly cured with balsamic and juniper berries. We also had a cooked tuna dish as part of the secondi piatti (second course) called tonno alla Veneziana — Venetian-style tuna. Thick pieces of tuna were lightly grilled with a rare center and served with sweet sautéed onions and bonito flakes. It was so simple and unassuming that the first bite was quietly surprising — clean, tender, and subtly rich with a depth of flavor I hadn’t expected.
Venice doesn’t need to shout — it whispers, and you listen.
On the occasions that we had room for dessert, we kept it simple: a single silky tiramisu with just enough bitterness to keep it grown-up, a plate of cantucci (butterless biscotti) paired with a digestivo, or more often, a plate of fresh pineapple to settle the stomach. It was the kind of sweet goodbye that makes you promise you’ll return.
Coming Home (Smuggling Memories and Maybe Some Salami)
Italy fed me — body and soul. It reminded me that good food is about joy, about gathering, about slowing down and paying attention. The meals we shared with friends lasted more than 3 hours — no one trying to push us out for the next seating. I came back having gained a few pounds — in spite of walking more than 125 miles over 2 weeks, with crumpled receipts from trattorias in my pockets, and more than a few recipe ideas scribbled in my notebook.
And that, folks, is how I like to travel — with my fork leading the way. I am, after all a Buona Forchetta (foodie).
Ciao!
Graziella
