[title type="h5"]
Eat Club Tour 2015: Day 14.
Sunday, June 6, 2015.
Renewing Commitments In The Vatican.
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Johnny Lee, his wife and four friends are with us on the cruise, including the extra days in London and Rome. Johnny and I were early members of the UNO chapter of Phi Kappa Sigma fraternity, and he's a fellow Rummel Raider. I've seen him only sporadically over the years, but we had many occasions to reconnect during the cruise. He tells us that through church friends at home, he and his wife will renew their marriage vows during their stay in Rome. He invites us and some other friends to join in this.
It is an even greater honor than we expect. A full Mass is celebrated for us in one of the small chapels surrounding the main altar of St. Peter's Basilica--the most important church in all of Christendom. Mary Ann and I are asked to do the readings, from which it was a short step for us to also renew our wedding vows--an idea that caught the Marys by surprise.
At the end of the Mass, it came out that the young priest who led these rubrics has been working in the Vatican for the past two years. Before that, he was a bonafide citizen of Chalmette. He is also a listener to my radio show. Not for those reasons, he took all of us on a personal tour of St. Peter's, including the closest possible approach to the bones of St. Peter himself, which are really and truly interred in this magnificent edifice. What a wonderful addition to this vacation!
The Marys went out to do some shopping. (What else?) I return to the hotel room, where MA suggests that I keep out of trouble by having breakfast. This is served in the Palm Court of the Hassler (not to be confused with the Palm Court of the Langham Hotel in London, where we began this adventure). I have my choice of the twenty-eight-euro continental buffet, or the full menu (with actual eggs!) for thirty-eight and change. The former is what I prefer anyway. Melon, a couple of slices of prosciutto, a croissant, a glass of orange juice and coffee.
The Marys appear as I am finishing up. They sit down and order a cup of tea for MA and a glass of grapefruit juice for ML. The check comes out for over seventy euros. This must be a mistake, I say. After two revisions of the check, I get it down to right about fifty. And I understand the game in which I am ensnared. Deluxe hotels of the kind that Mary Ann prefers (nay, insists upon) have intentionally high prices for everything to keep the hoi polloi (defined as anyone who worries about the exact price of breakfast) out of the place.
On the other hand, hotels like this perform services well beyond what the average hostelry will countenance. Indeed, last night and again this morning, we asked the man at the front desk if he could track down two Eat Clubbers who, we worry, may have wandered astray last night after dinner. He makes a number of calls and finally confirms that our friends are safe in their hotel. Our man chuckled a bit about his dealings with the friends' hotel. "They would not do us the courtesy of calling us back," he scoffed. "But then, they are not the Hassler." Mary Ann will likely repeat this story for the rest of our lives, as she justifies her hotel idee fixe.
[caption id="attachment_47849" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Alfredo's dining room.[/caption]
I spend most of the afternoon relaxing and writing. I get a newsletter out to the Eat Clubbers, inviting those remaining in Rome to join us at one of the city's most famous restaurants: Alfredo's. Although several restaurants claim that name, the one adjacent to the mausoleum of Emperor Augustus has the most convincing story. It surrounds the creation of fettuccine Alfredo, one of the great pasta dishes of all time.
[caption id="attachment_47848" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Fettuccine Alfredo, the real and original.[/caption]
When we gather at Alfredo's, we find the restaurant is sold out. But remembering the last time we dined at Alfredo's, Mary Ann jawbones the manager into allowing us to take up three tables in the main dining room. They didn't have enough servers to keep up the standards, but it wasn't bad, and for the third time in our experience at Alfredo's the food is without flaw. The eight of us have another pass-the-plates around repast with way too much to eat. I buy a few of bottles of Prosecco to share, and everybody seems happy. The final check was nearly as good a deal as last night's.
The big question under discussion: is Alfredo's fettuccine as good as Impastato's in Metairie? I would say that the two are almost identical--a surprise, given that the Alfredo's sauce is made with cream, while Impastato's makes its sauce from half-and-half and butter. Same idea, ultimately. It isn't often that New Orleans Italian restaurants match their European counterparts, but in this case you can save a trip to Rome for the fettuccine.
And so the Eat Club ends its twenty-sixth cruise, as everyone with us tonight heads for home early tomorrow. I am especially wistful about saying good-bye to Barney Cohen and Joan McCoy, who came from Seattle to join us. Barney is in the music industry, and he has been a consistently entertaining guy to have dinner with. The Charvets and the Giancolas also anchored many fun evenings. But we'll see them back home.
I think the Marys believe I am going senile. They depart from Alfredo's to--what else, again?--do a little more shopping. MA wonders if I will be able to find my way back to the hotel all alone. I don't think there will be a problem, although I wound up not walking same way I came. Still, I am reassured when I hear the distant babble of hundreds of young people hanging around the Spanish Steps. It feels almost like the crowd attracted by a Mardi Gras parade. I head in the direction of the sound, and then hike up and then down the 145 steps (I never get the same count twice), and right into the hotel from there.
In the Palm Court a man is playing the piano and singing a mix of Italian and classic American semi-jazz. I sit down with a cappuccino and listen to his excellent stylings until the Marys return.
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[title type="h5"]Eat Club Tour 2015: Day 15.
Monday, June 8, 2015.
Dining In A Room Buried In Broken Pottery. Dinner In The Sky.
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[dropcap1]W[/dropcap1]e are done with Eat Club activities, but not with wandering around Rome and eating in more of its restaurants. Mary Ann read in a magazine somewhere that a restaurant called Flavio Al Velavevodetto has the best pasta in Rome. Furthermore, it is in the Testaccio neighborhood, which adds a unique atmospheric element. Testaccio is a man-made hill of broken pottery from ancient times. It rises high enough that some buildings back into the pottery stack. After over two thousand years, the shards are still stacked in strata. Open a window into the pile, and cool air rushes out. Very interesting.
The food was much less edifying. The menu limits itself mostly to the Roman classics. Since we have been eating those for several days, I feel we're qualified to say that we found the Flavio versions mediocre. The one exception to this was rigatoni all'Amatriciana, the one major Roman dish I haven't yet sampled on this trip. But even this was less than spectacular.
We are there at lunchtime. Most of the customers seem to be locals on break. As I noticed in similar situations in the past, every person there is eating prosciutto wrapped around melon, as if it were required by law.
At least Flavio isn't expensive. It is, on the other hand, in an inconvenient neighborhood for flagging down a taxi. The restaurant manager gave a complex route to a spot where cabs congregate--about eight blocks away, through a less than appealing neighborhood. On top of that, it looks as if it will rain soon. For the past couple of days, Rome has had New Orleans weather: sweltering humid mornings and early afternoons, followed by lashing thunderstorms starting around three. Mary Ann presses her luck in stopping the cab for a number of churches and shops she wants to check out on our way back to the hotel.
We refresh ourselves. The girls head out yet again to look at more things. When I awaken from my nap I go downstairs and do some writing in the Palm Court, where the tables are much more comfortable than the one in the room.
[caption id="attachment_47836" align="alignright" width="320"]
The courtyard of the Hassler. [/caption]
The sun is still shining when the Marys come back. The hotel staff is pushing the rainwater off the overhead awnings, which are then opened to make a pleasant, rather unusual courtyard. I have a Negroni and the Marys have tea. We linger and review the day, the city, and the whole trip.
The girls go up to pack. I stay in the Palm Court to listen to a different pianist than the one who was here yesterday. That one was good, but this one is a seriously excellent singer. Even though almost all his repertoire is Italian, I find that I could listen to him for hours. His voice has a superlative timbre, just on the modern side of bel canto. My kind of singer.
[caption id="attachment_47816" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Rome by night, from the roof of the Hassler.[/caption]
The Marys and I have our final meal in Rome in the small seventh floor dining room of the Hassler. Only one other table is dining there, and they are leaving. The two waiters are very eager to serve us almost anything we might want, from a plate of spaghetti al pomodoro to caviar. All of it comes from downstairs, and everything is delicious. The Marys agree that this is the best meal we have had this entire trip, with the possible exception of Zefferino in Genoa.
Two atmospheric elements add much to this dinner. First, we are high enough above the city for a magnificent nighttime vista to unfold before us. You can see about 270 degrees of horizon. The field of view is replete with large cathedrals and basilicas, the most important ones lit up brightly. We can see the hotel we stayed in last year, and we recall how magnificent that reciprocal view was.
[caption id="attachment_47815" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Rome by day.[/caption]
The other entertainment is Simon, the seagull. He is large, friendly, and hungry. Although he is a much greater bother for the other table of guests this evening, he comes close to reaching distance of our plates. The waiter says that he's at least seven years old and lives at the Hassler full time.
How can he afford it? I wonder.
[title type="h5"]Flavio al Velavevodetto
Rome: Via di Monte Testaccio 97
+39 06 574 4194
Hotel Hassler Roma
Rome: Piazza Trinità dei Monti, 6
Tel:+39 06 699340[/title]
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[title type="h5"]
Tuesday, June 9, 2015.
Flying Home All Day And Night.[/title]
We leave for the airport at nine-thirty. I have barely enough euros in my pocket to pay the cab driver, but we will shortly leave the euro zone anyway. The driver flies down the alleyways, piazzas, boulevards, parking lots and every other way he can find to shave a few more nanoseconds off the time of our transit. I swear we left the ground at least twice. Even if he hadn't driven like that, we have lots of time to check in. Mary Ann fills the time to near the limit anyway, going through the rigamarole of saving fifty cents or so on taxes on her purchases.
The flight to Chicago takes nine hours. The food is not as good as it had been on our way out. But that was a 787, and this is a mere 777. We go through customs and the accompanying dragging around of bags. We take a train to our new terminal. I stay at the gate while the girls do yet more shopping. The gate changes. They find me anyway.
Why is it that the final flight back to New Orleans is always in a grubby, tight airplane? This one was a 737, and if it had been full it would have been very uncomfortable. The video screen on the back of the seat in front of me requires payment if one would like to actually watch something. No pay, and you have a constant commercial, previews of shows I wouldn't want to watch anyway. But I fall asleep shortly after takeoff, not to awaken until the descent begins.
Easy landing. Bags all come right out. We pay almost $300 for parking at the airport. It is half past midnight when the dogs Susie and Barry greet us in a euphoria at the gate of the Cool Water Ranch. Hassler to home, we have traveled about sixteen hours, our shortest return from Europe ever. How wonderful to be back to the land of dollars and English!
