Pollo alla Romana

Yes, there is such a thing as the free lunch, and today I enjoyed mine at the local trattoria in my neighborhood of Old Rome.

I didn’t order as much as I might have because I didn’t want to take advantage. Half a portion of rigatoni all’amatriciana (with bacon and tomato sauce sprinkled with Parmesan because I have never taken a liking to pecorino), a plate of pollo alla romana, coarse and crusty Roman bread to sop up the sauce, all the sauce, and flat water. Wine would have definitely aided digestion, but I sleep late. If I drink a glass of wine with lunch I will go right back to sleep again in my own version of the Roman “dolce far niente” (”sweet to do nothing”), which is more or less the story of my life.

A word about this particular version of pollo alla romana. It is a variation of chicken “cacciatore” with tomato and without olive oil. Many traditional trattorie stew their version of pollo alla romana in a thick tomato sauce with sliced bell pepper, but not at this particular trattoria so close to my heart, my soul, and my gut.

A few weeks ago I told the lady in charge of the tables I might one day fling myself into the pot of chicken bubbling on the stove and lap up the thin but intense sauce, which is positively inebriating despite the absence of alcohol. She seemed quite amused as she envisioned the possibility. I could pay the ladies in their tiny, overcrowded kitchen no higher compliment.

The dark meat of the chicken is cut into eighths and braised slowly, skin and all, in a sauce of canned tomatoes reduced to a liquid in the mini pimer, white wine vinegar, rosemary, a bit of garlic, and hot pepper to tingle the palate. As the meat cooks, the chicken fat under the skin is rendered and binds with the other ingredients to make this sauce memorable.

For a Jewish girl whose memories of the rendered chicken fat in her mother’s chopped liver now reside in heaven, this is almost as good as it gets. I am now a (somewhat lapsed) Catholic with a catholic vision and believe, or hope, my Jewish mother has earned a place in paradise even though she didn’t believe in it.

But, who am I to judge?

And what did I do to earn my free lunch?

Yesterday, forgetting for a moment I no longer live in Manhattan, I rushed off in my usual fashion to the trattoria because my cleaning girl was due at my door in less than an hour. On the way, three distinguished Italian out-of-towners, a man and two women in their sixties, asked me for directions to a well-known restaurant nearby. I had to inform them their first choice was open for dinner only. They inquired about another known establishment, then another, and I said it might be better not to chance places whose better days were long behind them.

They followed me to the neighborhood trattoria, which, I warned, offered no-frills home cooking in a modest but typically Roman atmosphere: paper covering the tables instead of cloth, cutlery (one knife, one fork per customer) which remains on the table for the whole meal rather than replaced after every course, convenience store glasses for wine and water, paper napkins. It is not unusual to see habitués enter, claim their seat by throwing a jacket over a chair, and set their own place instead of waiting for one of the daily rotating servers composed of the owner’s very extended family to do the job.

As we walked down the little streets, I pointed out a wonderful restaurant that was always closed on Monday and told them to try it on their next visit if they wanted a more varied menu, and we exchanged predictions on the national elections taking place in mid-April.

When we entered the mom-and-pop place, I introduced them to the lady in charge of the tables as the “pavesi,” wished them a “buon appetito” in this surviving nook of authentic Rome and settled into a small table by myself in the corner of the first room. They were seated in the inner room so that was the last I saw of them.

When I returned today for a more leisurely meal, the lady in charge of the tables told me my lunch had already been paid for by the “pavesi.” Evidently, they had enjoyed their Roman experience. She gave me their card, which they had left with her, and relayed the news that I would be their guest if I ever visited their home town.

I have never travelled to their town but it has always been on my list. Maybe one day I will actually make the trip and see its architectural wonders and perhaps bump into my chance acquaintances once again.

In the meantime I will send them an email to thank them for lunch.