THE “GRECO”--SIGNOR GIOVANNI--FREQUENTERS OF THE
BARCACCIA--PIETRO--THE ROMAN CIGAR--CAFFE DU BONGOUT--“PUNCH
A LA ROMAINE”--ITALIAN EATING-HOUSES--THE LEPRI--OLD
AURELIO--TERRIBILE--ROMAN BILL OF FARE--SWEETS--ENGLISH
ERRORS--DESSERT--THE LEPRI GARDEN--THE “GABBIONE”--ITS
NEIGHBOURHOOD--FRIED FISH--ALESSIO--“UNA BOMBA ALLA CERITO.”
As I could get nothing cooked in my new domicile, and do not even
know whether it possessed a kitchen or not, I was compelled to take
my meals at the Caffé and Eating-house. Of course I patronized the
Greco, which was not only close to me in the Via Condotti, but the
resort of most of my artistical friends. Signor Giovanni, its padrone,
a good-humoured old man of eighty, was at one time a waiter in the
establishment, but having married its mistress, may now be seen every
day inside the counter, raking up the mezzi-paoli. The Caffé is also
known by its original name of _Barcaccia_, derived from the adjacent
fountain in the Piazza di Spagna, and was famous during the war, as
the scene of some noisy political meetings. Having been hallowed by
the constant presence of men, whose names can never be lost to fame,
and will be remembered when their works have perished, the marble
tables and well-worn benches of the Greco, possess a charm for the
artist, which no other Caffé in Rome can boast. It opens at four in the
morning, when it is resorted to by the Vetturini, who take their _caffé
rhummeggiata_. After them, about daylight, come the Italian shopkeepers
of the Condotti, who make their early breakfast of chocolate and little
rolls called _chiffa_, in shape like the crescent of Diana. These give
place to the Danish and German artists, men with fierce moustaches
and grizly beards, who dim the grey-light of morning by the clouds of
smoke inseparable from the proper enjoyment of _mischio_[25] and _caffé
latte_. These frequent a middle room, to which they seem to possess an
exclusive right, and there they lounge, all dull and gloomy, sipping
and smoking. At about eight o’clock, the little round tables in the
front room are occupied one by one, whilst at a side bench, over which
the notice of “_non si fuma qui_,”[26] seems to promise a few cubic
yards of atmosphere less densely impregnated than the rest, may be
seen two or three individuals drinking _thé á latte_, and conversing
confidentially in an under tone. These are great men, whose chisels and
brushes have astonished all Europe. And yet the eye of the _ministro_
with the coffee-biggin is no oftener directed towards them, than to
the humble _stalliere_, who is smacking his _rhummeggiata_ on the
opposite bench, nor is the customary obeisance of the Signor Giovanni,
a whit lower to one party than the other. And now Pietro, the waiter,
who has been fanning himself at the open door-way, suddenly arouses
us by a prolonged cry of, “_dolcissimo_,” and we know that in another
minute we shall see ----, whose scriptural subjects have gained him so
great a notoriety, whilst a similar call for “_mezza crema con poco
zucchero_,”[27] betokens the approach of the less sweet-toothed author
of the “Life of Raffaelle.” Pietro knows and never fails to remember
the peculiar taste of each of his customers, and I have heard him give
the order for my “_pane bruscato_,” or dry toast, the moment that I
have turned the corner of the Piazza di Spagna.
About the middle of the day, there is a sprinkling of Frenchmen, who
drop in to open their appetites by a taste of the “gialla bottiglia,”
so called from the amber-coloured abscynthe, without which preparative,
and the subsequent _chasse_, their mid-day meal would be considered
incomplete. During the afternoon, there is a constant succession of
applicants for _caffè-noir_, accompanied by the regulation weed at one
bajocco, a cigar generally supposed to have been born in a cabbage-bed,
and baked brown in an oven, and which, after lying a month on the shelf
of a _spaccio normale_, returns to dust in the Greco. In the evening,
the caffé is generally filled with a miscellaneous company from all
quarters of Europe, who indulge in _mezzi-caldi_ and hot discussions,
mixing punch with politics, and debating knotty questions bearing upon
“art,” until midnight, when the house is closed.
Whilst speaking of Roman coffee-houses, I must not omit to mention the
“Bon Goût,” in the Piazza di Spagna, certainly one of the best in the
city, and although not much frequented by the generality of artists,
its benches are often occupied by the older stagers, who mumble through
an elaborate breakfast, unannoyed by the combined odours of tobacco
and abscynthe. Here too, will always be found some of that peculiar
class, so justly idolized by the Roman dealers in bronzes, mosaics, and
marbles, men who carry with them to England, boat-loads of _giallo_
and _rosso-antico_, and fill their carriages with camei and green
lizards. Then again, the “Bon Goût” is the resort of those who prefer
a French roll and newspaper, to the monotony of a hotel breakfast in
their bedrooms, and is therefore crowded in the visiting season. In the
afternoon, its tables are arranged outside, under an awning, and there
is a constant demand for ices and barley-water, and as the genuine
_punch a la romaine_, ought, if it really does not, to date from the
Bon Goût, and may there be had in perfection, the ladies can want no
excuse for a free indulgence therein.
Having disposed of the _Caffè_, I will devote another page or two
to the unintellectual subject of gastronomy, and beg my reader to
accompany me into a Trattoria, or Italian restaurant. Those of Rome
are numerous and generally good, but as it is with that of the
“_Lepri_,” that I am more particularly concerned, and may hereafter
have frequently to allude to it, I will endeavour to give a short
description of it and its frequenters. The “Lepri” is in the Via
Condotti, exactly opposite the Caffè Greco, and takes its title from
the palace which adjoins it. The head of the establishment is, or
lately was, a wealthy widow, who would never scruple to render a
service to an artist, and would lend her stock of plate, or tend a sick
couch with unhesitating kindness. Her son lives upon his _rentes_,
which are sufficiently good, and enable him to keep his carriage and
shooting-box.
On the ground-floor, are two public rooms and an enormous kitchen,
but as the former are chiefly frequented by Italians, we will ascend
the dark and greasy staircase to the first-floor, where we shall find
three distinct entrances to as many tolerably spacious rooms. The
presiding deity of the first, is the old Ferrarese waiter, Aurelio,
with his attendant sommelier rejoicing in the high-sounding name of
Ferdinando Terribile, who seldom sees a customer dine three times in
his room, before he bestows upon him some appropriate soubriquet.[28]
Aurelio is a character possessing some of the _suaviter in modo_ of
his Imperial prototype, and will also be found, if pressed for two
consecutive portions of pudding, (which he stoutly maintains to be
unnecessary,) equally _fortiter in re_. In Aurelio’s room are three
tables, which, at twelve o’clock, or thereabouts, are appropriated by
hungry yellow-haired Danes and Saxons, deep in the mysteries of _purèe_
and _giardinetto_, their flowing beards and moustaches, lubricated
and unctuous with the greasy fluid, which appears by its effects to
be as conducive to a luxuriant growth, as the genuine Macassar.
The application of a piece of bread puts them in train for the next
course, and now Aurelio may be observed confidentially whispering,
and touching upon the excellence of such items of his bill of fare,
as he knows will suit the taste of each particular customer. To one
he dictates a _fritto misto_, a sort of omnium gatherum, as its name
implies, consisting generally of small portions of calve’s head, liver,
brains, artichoke, cabbage leaves, cauliflowers, and young gourds,
fried in fat. Then an Irishman interrupts him, with a demand for two
_mezzi-manzi_, or bouilli, by which little dodge, he hopes to secure
a larger portion, than if he had ordered a whole _go_. To another,
Aurelio recommends an _agrodolce_, a villainous compound of sweets
and sours, or a _stufatino_ of beef and celery, stewed to rags. The
rattling of knives and plates is now almost deafening. Terribile, in
his capacity of canava, or butler, rushes about with wine-flasks and
_fogliette_,[29] of the white and red _nostrale_,[30] having already
taken care, like a ship’s purser, to withhold a thumb-toll from each
bottle in the process of decanting. A course of sweets then follows,
and of these, there is such an alarming variety, that the bill of fare
rather puzzles than assists one in making a selection. Under this
head, comes the _Zuppa Inglese_, a name which leads our uninitiated
countrymen to suppose that ox-tail, or mutton broth, has got by chance
into a wrong column, and if ordered, makes its appearance in the form
of a flat sponge-cake, soaked in rum, with an upper coating of plaster
of paris, and blue sugar-plums. Here also is the delicate _ricotta_, a
curd much eaten by the Italians at their breakfast, but usually fried
in oil or made into pudding, when served at dinner. Dessert is rarely
eaten, and I should think never called for a second time by any one at
the “Lepri.” I was once rash enough to express to Aurelio, my desire
for some fruit. He assented, with a stare of astonishment, and brought
me, on a plate, a shrivelled apple, two lumps of sugar, two figs, some
unripe almonds, a piece of cheese, and four large green beans, in the
furry pod. The latter are eaten as a delicacy, but I should think a
taste for overgrown scarlet-runners, would be acquired with difficulty
by an Englishman.
The adjoining rooms will be found very much to resemble that to which I
have endeavoured to introduce the reader, saving that people of other
nations will be found there, and instead of his mother-tongue or the
silvery Italian, his ears will be greeted with the harsh gutterals of
Germany, or the still less-intelligible Russian. Behind the Trattoria
there is a garden, where we sometimes dined _al fresco_, under
odd-looking trees, of questionable appearance. If the wind happened to
be stirring, there would sometimes drop upon us and into our plates
and dishes, a shower of green beetles or caterpillars, whilst our feet
and legs were besieged by a legion of ants. As I never much enjoyed
the forced presence of these little visitors, my rustic dinners were
anything but frequent.
Such is a rough outline of the mid-day meal at the “Lepri.” With some
this is called, and really serves as a dinner, though the hour of Ave
Maria is generally the busiest at the various Trattorie. Besides the
“Lepri,” there are other eating-houses frequented by artists, who are
often capricious in their tastes, and will walk a mile or more in quest
of some dish of particularly good repute. In the Corso, there is a
Restaurant called the “Bertini,” used by such as prefer being served
in a somewhat more ostentatious style, and who do not object to pay
a trifle more for it. Here the wines are better, and there is more
choice of them than at some other places, but the cuisine is very much
the same. The Gabbione, the Falcone, and the Scalinata, are well-known
houses, each remarkable in some way or other. The first, which was
once a banking-establishment, is a cellar under a house, near the
Fountain of Trevi, and is famed for its good wines, delicious water,
and cheapness, but it has withal an appearance so murky and so very far
removed from cleanliness, that the Germans have bestowed upon it the
appellation of the “Dirty Spoon.”[31] The street which leads to it from
the fountain, so celebrated by Madame de Stael, is a sort of vegetable
shamble, and reeks with the perpetual odours of cabbage leaves and bad
melons. A great deal of business is done here in thin lemonades and the
opal-hued _assensio_, and it is the resort of Carbonari and big dirty
men, who emulate the _pieni_ of the Corso, in swallowing ices and cold
_bibite_.[32] In winter the heaps of vegetables give place to fizzing
cauldrons of fish, of queer shapes, indigenous only to the Tiber, among
which the really delicate _triglie_[33] figures conspicuously, while
vast tin waiters of fried fish, which tempt even the very Jews from
the Ghetto, are here displayed in close rank on either side. But let us
now explore the damp cellar of the “Dirty Spoon.” Having descended four
or five steps, we find ourselves in a sort of vaulted chamber, whose
intense gloom is only relieved by the doubtful white of the coarse
cloths which cover the narrow tables. Alessio the waiter, will be found
either busy with his customers, or fast asleep upon a bench. These
are his only two conditions, and he fulfils each to the letter. It is
wonderful, with what accuracy he will remember the precise quantity and
value of the dishes consumed by each of his customers, without having
recourse to pencil and paper. The _chef_ of the Gabbione, like those
of other Roman trattorie, appears to have an invincible objection to
the introduction of any novel dish, and I was therefore much surprised
one evening that I visited its subterranean, in company with Savill and
“the Emperor,”[34] who were bent upon supping. We had hardly seated
ourselves, ere Alessio pompously announced a new dish. “Signori,
abbiamo Bomba alla Cerito!” The _plat_ appeared well-timed, inasmuch
as the great artiste was at that very moment delighting the volatile
Romans at the Teatro Aliberti, hard by. “Vediamo,” was our reply, and
the _Bomba_ was introduced, but any thing less likely to recall even a
faint recollection of a “_pas seul_,” I never saw. It proved to be a
ball of rice, fried in green oil, and enclosing a solitary sparrow, of
which the head alone was visible, and was remarkable only on account of
its exalted name, and extremely ludicrous appearance. In taste it was
excellent.
[Illustration: UNA BOMBA ALLA CERITO!]
FOOTNOTES:
[25] Coffee and chocolate mixed.
[26] “No smoking here.”
[27] “Half a cream with little sugar.”
[28] A practice rendered in some degree necessary, from Terribile’s
inability to pronounce our Saxon names.
[29] A _Foglietto_ is a small decanter, holding nearly a pint.
[30] _Nostrale_, when applied to wine, means that grown in one’s own
vineyards.
[31] Zum schmutzigen Löffel.
[32] Swizzle. (English Vernacular.)
[33] Red Mullet.
[34] Terribile had dignified one of our friends with the imposing title
of “Imperatore.”