grazie a dio e venerdi
Translated: Thank God it's Friday. I write this not as a cheesy comment, not borrwing from the marketing campaign for bad NBC tv programs of the early 90's, not alluding to the disgusting chain restaurant --> Grazie a dio e venerdi is actually the name of the best pizzeria in my neighborhood, maybe in all of Rome. I've only been once since I moved, the first night in before I had done any grocery shopping. I've been enjoying cooking so much that I haven't wanted to go out to eat.
Where the hell are the comments? Nobody loves me anymore?
I had a great exchange this morning with the produce lady. I woke up early to go to the neighborhood market (Mercato Rionale di Monti). It is pathetic compared to the bustling one in Prati, but I am not hauling across town three times a week for fruit in this weather. In any case, here was the lone produce lady, among abandoned stalls, happy to start in on complaining about the heat as soon as I walked in. I asked about the provenance of her plums - what I meant was to find from what region they came (having just experienced otherworldly stone fruits from Emilia-Romagna), but she thought I was asking whether they were Italian or not. I got an earful about how she doesn't sell any garbage from Spain or Tunisia, her fruit is all Italian. "Look at these nespoli! Look at how ugly they are! Just like they look on the tree, not all plastic and artificial." I was worried that I'd offended her, but I realized what I'd done was give her a chance to brag about something she clearly cares about. We were all smiles when I left, me with a heavy bag of produce and some recipes she insisted I try, and she having parted me with what is undoubtedly a little more money than she'd have gotten out of the grumbly old ladies who fight over every ounce.
I love this neighborhood. Today I ran into two of my old buddies, one standing outside his shop wanted to make me try on the hats in the window, another walking down the street literally dragged me into a bar for a coffee and set plans for dinner next week. I'm also making all kinds of new friends, the area is so active that everyone introduces me around to everyone they know.
I'll miss it terribly when I have to go. I'm sure I'll find something similar in Bologna.
Where the hell are the comments? Nobody loves me anymore?
I had a great exchange this morning with the produce lady. I woke up early to go to the neighborhood market (Mercato Rionale di Monti). It is pathetic compared to the bustling one in Prati, but I am not hauling across town three times a week for fruit in this weather. In any case, here was the lone produce lady, among abandoned stalls, happy to start in on complaining about the heat as soon as I walked in. I asked about the provenance of her plums - what I meant was to find from what region they came (having just experienced otherworldly stone fruits from Emilia-Romagna), but she thought I was asking whether they were Italian or not. I got an earful about how she doesn't sell any garbage from Spain or Tunisia, her fruit is all Italian. "Look at these nespoli! Look at how ugly they are! Just like they look on the tree, not all plastic and artificial." I was worried that I'd offended her, but I realized what I'd done was give her a chance to brag about something she clearly cares about. We were all smiles when I left, me with a heavy bag of produce and some recipes she insisted I try, and she having parted me with what is undoubtedly a little more money than she'd have gotten out of the grumbly old ladies who fight over every ounce.
I love this neighborhood. Today I ran into two of my old buddies, one standing outside his shop wanted to make me try on the hats in the window, another walking down the street literally dragged me into a bar for a coffee and set plans for dinner next week. I'm also making all kinds of new friends, the area is so active that everyone introduces me around to everyone they know.
I'll miss it terribly when I have to go. I'm sure I'll find something similar in Bologna.
posted by Miss Adventure at 4:03 PM
1 Comments:
every etto to be exact. (hectogram)
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