Opera and dinner
I’m told: write while it’s fresh—“it” referring to a memory of a person, place,
or thing. The person who told that statement to me was referring particularly
about travel. If you allow your memories to linger for longer than what is
necessary, they can latch on to new meanings. Or you’ll find that writing
becomes stale, bland, unable to capture the anxieties and excitement of the
moment in question.
But there’s wisdom in waiting before writing things down. Certainly some impressions of a person, a place, or a time ripen to a greater level of wisdom, when one waits for the right time when the correct insight can be had, when a new sense or understanding descends from where these things come from. The cloud of memories, ripened by time, like fine wine.
I navigate both approaches to writing. But these days I need to force myself to put words onto the blank page. Writing is essentially a muscle that must be exercised—and often.
A week has gone by since I had returned to the real world: the endless daily tropical sunshine of my hometown, the patients and their cancers, and the household errands I’m obligated to perform because I am the only one left at home to become my mother’s personal assistant. But a week is not a very long time. There’s a certain freshness to the memories, of course, but unhurried insights have emerged, too.
So I’ll tell you about the food in Rome—a mere sampling—which I thoroughly enjoyed. Enjoy might be a narrow term, but as with most words, it is limited but sufficient to convey what I did feel. I eat for nourishment and also for pleasure: that much is clear. But what I don’t particularly understand is how people can both eat for nourishment, pleasure, and research. For such is the case with my brothers and friends, whose passion is to cook meals, discover ingredients, and spend time in the kitchen. The very essence of creation in the most gustatory of terms excites them.
I realize now that many of my close friends who are dear to me are passionate about eating. I can’t imagine traveling with someone who is indifferent to food. The food table allows conversations to flow, cultures to be experienced, and so on.
So Jef takes me and Manong to Romanè, and tells me all about the food we should try. The restaurant is unassuming, and you’d probably miss it if you passed Via Cipro without paying much attention. (I will return to it after three days in Naples; it's that good.) There are some places he had previously discovered, some he’s trying out for the first time. Google Maps offers a good starting point. It’s imperfect, certainly biased, but it’s a good place to start. Usually, he reads reviews, a summary of positive reactions of people who have experienced eating in those places. Then we trace the way to the restaurants or cafés, and order what feels right at the moment. It could be a dish that Jef had previously tried and wants to try again, or something he is curious about. With Jef and Manong, I don’t have to think about what I should order. I get overwhelmed with the plethora of options, up to the point of paralysis.
Jef tells me Italians typically only have a pastry and coffee for breakfast, but they indulge in a four-course meal for lunch and dinner.
But there’s wisdom in waiting before writing things down. Certainly some impressions of a person, a place, or a time ripen to a greater level of wisdom, when one waits for the right time when the correct insight can be had, when a new sense or understanding descends from where these things come from. The cloud of memories, ripened by time, like fine wine.
I navigate both approaches to writing. But these days I need to force myself to put words onto the blank page. Writing is essentially a muscle that must be exercised—and often.
A week has gone by since I had returned to the real world: the endless daily tropical sunshine of my hometown, the patients and their cancers, and the household errands I’m obligated to perform because I am the only one left at home to become my mother’s personal assistant. But a week is not a very long time. There’s a certain freshness to the memories, of course, but unhurried insights have emerged, too.
So I’ll tell you about the food in Rome—a mere sampling—which I thoroughly enjoyed. Enjoy might be a narrow term, but as with most words, it is limited but sufficient to convey what I did feel. I eat for nourishment and also for pleasure: that much is clear. But what I don’t particularly understand is how people can both eat for nourishment, pleasure, and research. For such is the case with my brothers and friends, whose passion is to cook meals, discover ingredients, and spend time in the kitchen. The very essence of creation in the most gustatory of terms excites them.
I realize now that many of my close friends who are dear to me are passionate about eating. I can’t imagine traveling with someone who is indifferent to food. The food table allows conversations to flow, cultures to be experienced, and so on.
So Jef takes me and Manong to Romanè, and tells me all about the food we should try. The restaurant is unassuming, and you’d probably miss it if you passed Via Cipro without paying much attention. (I will return to it after three days in Naples; it's that good.) There are some places he had previously discovered, some he’s trying out for the first time. Google Maps offers a good starting point. It’s imperfect, certainly biased, but it’s a good place to start. Usually, he reads reviews, a summary of positive reactions of people who have experienced eating in those places. Then we trace the way to the restaurants or cafés, and order what feels right at the moment. It could be a dish that Jef had previously tried and wants to try again, or something he is curious about. With Jef and Manong, I don’t have to think about what I should order. I get overwhelmed with the plethora of options, up to the point of paralysis.
Jef tells me Italians typically only have a pastry and coffee for breakfast, but they indulge in a four-course meal for lunch and dinner.
We watch opera at the Teatro dell’Opera di
Roma. Our course we are underdressed, a fact we can’t possibly hide because the
seats we’re given are in the armchairs of the theater: the first row, to the
left of the stage. I struggle to understand what La Piccola Cubana is all
about. Sure, it’s a vaudeville in five scenes by Hans Magnus Enzensberger, but
it’s not the typical classical opera I’d previously seen. I should have done my
reading in advance. I crane my neck to see the libretto, displayed on the wide
LCD screen on top of the stage, while I struggle to understand the play. During
intermission, I ask Jef what he thinks the play is about. His statement echoes
my understanding about it: I have no clue. But I’m
surprised that there are young people in the theater who pay attention. There are the elegant Italians, likely intellectuals or simply plain opera fans, who discuss the show in the lobby.
We head
out to a much subdued city at around 9 in the evening and look for a place for
dinner.
We find the restaurant: Trattoria Vecchia-Roma. Jef orders antipasti — starters. There’s carciofi fritti — fried artichokes; fiori di zucca — friend zucchini flowers stuffed with mozzarella and anchovies; and melanzane alla parmigiana — along with tomato sauce and cheese. Then that should have been followed by a pasta. And then the segundo, and then dessert. But we are full, and it's getting late.
We find the restaurant: Trattoria Vecchia-Roma. Jef orders antipasti — starters. There’s carciofi fritti — fried artichokes; fiori di zucca — friend zucchini flowers stuffed with mozzarella and anchovies; and melanzane alla parmigiana — along with tomato sauce and cheese. Then that should have been followed by a pasta. And then the segundo, and then dessert. But we are full, and it's getting late.