Beware the Antipasti!

Dear International Living Reader,

We headed out of Rome toward the sun and sea: destination Anzio. An hour from the capital, it's a top destination for Romans seeking a summer escape.

By-passing the bayfront strip of restaurants and gelaterias, we proceeded to the backstreet Trattoria da Carlo (next to a fishmonger), where locals were entering in swarms.

Paper tablecloths, fluorescent lights, and a flurry of activity. Nose-ringed, blue-jeaned waitresses in high gear. Bang, a pitcher of white wine came down in front of us; it was local, but hardly "plonk." The waitress approached, asking "Antipasto?" Well, probably…we hadn't decided yet…

" Si, si," she said, over-ruling us. And so it began…

She brought us a series of dishes: seppie in tomato sauce (with a hint of ink for the complex, smokey taste and burnt umber color)…steamed mussels that were oh so sweet… insalata di mare with calamari rings and bits of mini-octopi, lemon and parsley, and a peperoncino zip…whole steamed baby octopus with a purée of parsley and oil spread on top…a slice of halibut-like fish glazed with oil, tomato, and a squeeze of lemon. The plates were snatched away as soon as the last bite was gone: "fast food" the Italian way.

Carlo, cook and director, working from what must have been a bar area in this locale's previous life, cooked pasta to order and served from steaming pots. Our waitress came and went without so much as a "My name is…" or "Our special today is…" Instead, she just said " Poi?" ("Now what?"), or raised an eyebrow to see if we wanted more.

We had eaten an entire meal's worth of food, but the spaghetti alla vongole, heaped with small clams, was unbearably appealing (we watched the woman next to us eat two portions--after her antipasto). But with the tantalizing aroma of fried fish in the air since we had first entered Anzio, I'd become fixed on the idea of having a fritto misto (a mixed platter of fried fish). Dilemma. We by-passed the pasta (deciding there would be a next time) and ordered ONE fritto misto and TWO salads. Just ONE fritto misto, please. The waitress stuck up her thumb, sure she had misunderstood. "And maybe a roast fish?" she suggested. We were firm. "No, no," we said, shaking our heads and looking down in embarrassment at being such light-weight eaters.

Afterward, no dessert or café on offer: just limoncello and grappa placed on the table. Again we demurred and asked for the conto… When it didn't arrive, we got up and went to Carlo, who wiped his oil-coated hands and thought a moment. "Forty euro," he said, too busy to bother adding up every penny of our bill. We handed it over and he turned back to his boiling pots, setting the money aside to be dealt with later--this casual trattoria's version of an accounting system.

Barbara Groom
For International Living