Unexpected Artichoke Obssession

by Ulrike Duran Bravo (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Italy

We travelled to Rome in April – three nights without our relatively young children. The first afternoon, we were delighted to find our Airbnb was a few minutes’ walk away from the Piazza Navona, the old Roman race course, and Campo di Fiori, the flower market in the other direction. On one corner of our jagged little alley was Frigidarium, an ice-cream parlour where people queued in troves, opposite “the best pizzeria in town” according to our host, and equally to more people waiting in line. We were tired and hungry and in no mood for standing. So we walked away from the hustle and bustle of the streets leading to the squares and found a little restaurant with an inexpensive three-course set evening menu and available seats. The starter was artichokes: carciofo alla romana, or alla judia. I had already clocked the artichoke globes on stalls outside restaurants and greengrocers earlier: it was artichoke season. In the U.K. I find artichokes in jars or small plastic tubs, sold as little snacks in the “antipasti” section of the supermarket. We put them in salads or on pizzas. But it has been a long time since I have seen a fresh artichoke. That first night, I tried Carciofo alla giudia: deep fried and crispy and salty, leaves slightly wrinkled in the process. I felt like I had landed. The next couple days, I voluntarily did all the site-seeing that my parents had dragged me along to when I came here as a child. I am sure that in the last thirty years, the crowds of tourists have increased, though maybe I have just blanked them out from my memories. I felt smug for having done my research and pre-booking tickets for the Colosseum and the Vatican online. No hours of queuing up, no haggling with ticket-touts. Walking through the archways of the colosseum, I had vague recollections of my mother explaining about gladiators and the lions and playing hide and seek in the Roman Forum. I felt a short pang thinking that I should provide similar memories for my children. But then I remembered my feet, grateful for my comfortable shoes and seeing stressed-out parents dragging their moaning children behind them. I was doubly glad that the children weren’t there when dealing with the crowds in the Sistine Chapel. The Vatican museums that you walk through before you reach the chapel were mainly pleasantly empty if you entered the side-rooms, as the crowds stayed on the main path to reach the chapel, just to say they’ve been there. They walked past without looking at amazingly famous paintings by Van Gogh, Matisse, Dalí (to name a few) and sculptures like Rodin’s The Thinker. It pays to stop and stare a while. It was hideous once we reached the Hall of Tapestries that lead to the chapel. There were so many people that you had no choice but to move with them. No chance to move backwards or sideways or stop. The children will find their own Roman adventures when they’re ready. We did try out the pizzeria on the corner on the second night, queuing patiently to see what the fuss was about. The pizza was excellent (yes I had quattro stagioni with artichokes), and yet, I couldn’t help think about the previous night’s carciofi. The gelato Crema di Fiorentina dipped in chocolate made up for it, nearly. The next day, we stumbled along Filletti di Baccala in the old Jewish Ghetto – fried crispy cod and a cup of white Roman wine informally eaten standing outside. We felt like locals until a guided group of tourists arrived and we realised this was no well-kept secret. Talking about street-food, I had another takeaway that day: battered artichokes, eaten like snack food out of a cardboard tray. In the Salumeria L’Antica next to the Pantheon I could not resist buying a small tub of grilled and marinated artichoke hearts, which we ate as soon as we reached our room. I left Rome buzzing with its architecture and art history, and an unexpected obsession with artichokes. Now, I am researching how to grow them in my back garden.